


Night of the Chupacabra

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam vs. the elusive Chupacabra</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Case

They’d been stuck in Charlette, Nebraska for the last week, waiting for the torrential rain to stop and the river to sink back in its banks where it belonged. West of Charlette, it had turned the highway into a lake almost two feet deep. To the east, a mudslide had washed their remaining escape route into a mire of jagged pavement chunks.

The enforced idleness had Dean growling around the hotel room, unable to stomp across the road to the local bar because his ribs were still healing up from the impact of the oak bureau a poltergeist had slammed into him. To make matters worse, the power had gone down on the first night and hadn’t been back on since, which meant no TV. No radio. Consequently, Sam spent a lot of his own time getting wet while he avoided his grumpy brother: drinking at the bar whenever it was open and walking around town when it wasn’t, and constantly praying for the rain to stop.

It finally obliged Thursday morning, one week to the day from when their arrival, and the power flickered back on late Friday night. When Sam blinked his way from sleep, he was amused to find Dean standing in the middle of the room, with a knife in one hand and the other pressed against his ribs, looking stupidly up at the lights. Dean caught Sam watching him and scowled. “Not one word,” he threatened, snapping the lights off and crawling back into bed.

He was up before Sam the next morning, a rare occurrence, and already hunched intently over the laptop. His answer was short when Sam asked him what he was doing: looking for a job to get them out of this hellhole, what’d it look like? Sam sighed and left to forage for food. There really wasn’t any talking to Dean when he was in a foul mood, and the forced idleness of the last two days—it wasn’t raining anymore, for crying out loud, why the hell couldn’t they leave?—hadn’t helped matters.

Sam picked their breakfast up at the bar, which doubled as a restaurant for the locals, and then headed back to the room with provisions and good news, which he imparted to his brother as soon as he fumbled the door open.

“River’s back down: we should be able to head out this afternoon.”

Dean grinned up at him. “Finally. Good timing, too. I think I found us a job.”

“What is it?” Sam asked. He shut the door behind him and then joined his brother, setting the bag of food and two steaming coffees down next to the laptop.

With one hand, Dean swung the computer around so that Sam could see the screen. With the other, he snagged one of the Styrofoam cups. “Check it out. Three dead in Panoquot, upstate Maine. Their bodies were exsanguinated. That means…”

“I know what exsanguinated means, Dean.”

“Whatever, brainiac. Anyway, these are just the latest in a series of violent attacks on the local livestock. Looks like something’s moving up the food chain. Speaking of which, these eggs smell like ghoul.”

Sam ignored Dean’s grousing as he studied the newspaper article critically. “How do we know it’s one of ours?” he asked, falling easily into the role of devil’s advocate. He and Dean had been challenging each other like this for as long as he could remember, screening for jobs that were either hoaxes or the work of some human evil. “I mean, the paper says that it looks like animal attacks. And upstate Maine has a lot of forest.”

“That’s right,” Dean agreed around a mouthful of scrambled egg. “And lots of forest means lots of room for something nasty to hide. Besides, take a look at this…” Dropping the fork, he pulled the laptop back towards himself to fiddle with the keyboard, and then shoved it at Sam. “Check out the marks on his neck.”

Sam squinted at the image on the screen. “Where did you find this picture? Papers don’t publish close ups of murder victims.” He looked at the URL at the top of the screen, trying to make sense of the series of letters and numbers.

“No, but MEs sometimes post their files online so that the investigating officers have easy access.”

“You hacked the medical examiner’s computer system?”

Dean snorted. “You aren’t the only one with brains in this family, Sam. Besides, it was easy. Some people just don’t know how to encrypt files. Dude, did you put cream in this?” He was frowning at the coffee he was drinking.

Sam sighed and switched with his brother. How Dean had been able to tell that he’d grabbed Sam’s cream and three sugars and not his milk and two sugars, Sam didn’t know. His coffee had tasted right to him. He sipped the new cup and it seemed the same. God, Dean’s taste buds were sensitive. And he called Sam a girl.

“Dean,” Sam said as his brother cautiously sipped the new cup. “This is illegal. You’re wanted for murder, in case you’ve forgotten. I thought we were trying to stay beneath the radar. That’d be a lot easier to do if you stopped waving your hand around under their noses.”

“Pffbt. Like I’m gonna get caught. Please, Sammy, give me a little credit. Besides, they trace the hack and all they’ll find is the Sleepytime Bungalo’s ISP address.” Dean put the cup of coffee down on the table and pushed it away from him. “There’s cream in this one, too. Bumfuck town can’t even make coffee right. Rains all the time. No pay per view.” His complaints trailed off into subvocal grumbles.

Sam valiantly resisted the urge to strangle his brother and turned his attention back to the picture on the computer screen. If Dean was hinting that he wanted Sam to go get him a new coffee, he could forget about it. Dean was just going to have to deal with having cream instead of milk in his coffee for once.

“Are those puncture marks?” Sam asked suddenly.

Dean nodded, one finger tapping against the side of the coffee cup as he considered it. To drink, or not to drink. That was the question. You’d think he’d be less picky, considering they kind of food they’d grown up on.

“Vampires?” Sam prodded. “You think this is another nest?”

Dean took a sip of coffee, capitulating, and then looked up at Sam. “Nope. No way this is vamps.”

“Why not? The puncture marks, the blood loss…those are classic indicators of a vampire attack.”

“Three reasons, Sammy.” Dean held up one finger and said, “The victims were drained in under an hour. Vamps like to bleed their vics for days before making a kill.” A second finger joined the first. “There were also claw marks on their bodies, and some of their bones were crushed. Not the normal M.O. for a vamp.”

“And the third reason?”

“Goats.” Dean smirked. “What do you know about El Chupacabra?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Chupacabras don’t exist.”

Dean rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on the wheel. They’d been driving for four days now and every day it had been the same story. Get up, get breakfast ( _and coffee, God yes, coffee_ ), get going, and, at some point in the day, get bothered by his little brother about a perfectly good job. They’d been through this conversation again and again; Dean didn’t know why Sam kept bringing it up. He debated ignoring the prod this time, but that would only lead to a pissy Sam, and a pissy Sam was an ( _even more_ ) annoying Sam.

So instead, he said, “And how many of the things we’ve hunted have other people said that about? Hell, you didn’t think _vamps_ existed before we hit that nest with Dad.” Yeah, okay, neither had Dean, but he wasn’t going to split hairs here.

Sam switched gears immediately. “Even if they are real, these attacks don’t fit the profile.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause it’s _Maine_ , Dean. El Chupacabra is a Mexican legend. How would one have gotten all the way up here?”

“Hitched a ride on a Greyhound?” Dean could see Sam’s Not-Amused expression from the corner of his eye and rolled his shoulders in a loose shrug. His right hand twitched with the urge to switch on the radio and end the conversation: it was only going to finish the same way it always did. Of course, that tactic always resulted in a stormy silence that made the car a fairly unpleasant place to be—not that he would ever admit Sam’s little tantrums bothered him.

“How the hell should I know?” he amended, finally. “That’s what research is for. The answers are there, Sam. We just need to find them.”

“You mean _I_ need to find them while _you_ ‘investigate’ the local bars.”

“You want to hustle some pool this time and I’ll be happy to hit the library, but we need to eat, and not everywhere takes credit cards.”

“Yeah, and pool’s the only thing you hustle,” Sam muttered, slouching down in his seat. It was a fairly impressive thing to watch: there was a lot of Sam to slouch.

“Hey, it’s not my fault women can’t keep their hands off me. I mean, seriously, dude, who could resist this?” He took one hand off the wheel and gestured to himself, grinning widely.

Now _this_ was an argument that never got old. Of course, it reminded Dean that it’d been a while since he’d seen any action. Bureau to the ribs really put a crimp in his sex life. Feeling pretty good now, though. Not that it would matter unless they actually _had_ women in Panoquot. Since they’d crossed into Maine, all Dean had seen was a whole lot of trees.

Sam snorted and— _thank God_ —let the conversation fall. He stared out the window, letting Dean drive in peace for a while, and then asked, hesitantly, “We _are_ going to be careful, right? I mean, until we know for sure it isn’t vampires. And we’ll carry machetes?” Which, in Sam-speak, meant, _“You’ll be careful, right, Dean? Because this chupacabra thing is really stupid, and it’s definitely vampires.”_

“Yeah, sure. Cause machetes are real inconspicuous.”

Sam bristled, eyebrows drawing down and lips pulling together in a thin line. “I mean it, Dean. We’re doing this right or we’re not doing it at all.”

Son of a bitch. Was that…did Sam just give him an _order_? Dean’s chest constricted and he felt his forehead tightening as he frowned. He’d been nothing but accommodating since they left Charlette—hell, he’d put up with Sam whining every day about the whole chupacabra thing, and submitted to the stupid wrap for his chest, even though he didn’t need it anymore—and now Sam was pulling this? How fucking dumb did he think Dean was, anyway?

Dean spun the wheel and the Impala swung over to the side of the road. At the same time, his foot slammed down on the break and a moment later they were stopped, a cloud of churned up leaves settling down behind them. Sam had straightened again, face loose and surprised. Dean twisted in his seat to face his brother.

“Why are you so eager for this to be vamps?” he demanded. “Dad’s not here to save your dumb ass when you get grabbed by one this time.”

And that did it, cracked right through Sam’s petulant exterior like Dean thought it would. He saw the brief flash of hurt pass over his brother’s face, quickly followed by anger. If Sam followed his usual pattern, he’d rip into Dean with anything and everything he’d been stewing over for the last four days. And then, in a few hours, he’d have gotten everything out of his system and be back to normal.

Which was why pissing Sam off was fun, sometimes: all the reaction and none of the consequences, just the way Dean liked it. On the other hand, Sam was truthful when he was angry, and his words could be damned cutting. But right now, Dean could take few cuts as long as Sam handed over the goods. Kid had been dancing around this vamps vs. chupacabra thing since Charlette, and Dean wanted to know why.

“Because it’s stupid!” Sam shouted. “I mean, God, Dean: a _goat vampire_? There isn’t even a reliable description of the thing!”

“You wanna tell me something I don’t know?” Dean shot back.

“Then why the hell are you so sure it isn’t vampires?”

“Because it doesn’t fit the profile. Vampires don’t do animals. The victims were savaged, not just bitten, and the bite marks are too fucking big. Unless you think this is some kind of sasquatch/ vamp hybrid, there aren’t really any other options here.”

Sam gaped at him. “You really believe this, don’t you?”

Scowling, Dean said, “And you’re just figuring this out now? Great powers of observation, College Boy.”

Sam relaxed at Dean’s answer, tension flowing from his neck and shoulders. He reached up a hand to rub at the back of his neck and smiled, almost shyly. Dean marveled again at Sam’s ability to just let go of his anger like that. If Dean hadn’t been sitting right here, he never would have suspected that his little brother had just been engaged in a shouting match.

“I thought you were fucking with me,” Sam admitted with a rueful shake of his head.

Dean stared at him incredulously. “You what?”

“You do it all the time, Dean.”

“Not on a job—never piss where you work, or something like that. Christ, Sammy, how dumb do you think I am?”

“Oh, come on. Remember the ‘possessed dealer’ in Las Vegas? Or, hey, how about the ‘werewolf’ in Washington?”

That one so didn’t count. That had been training. Sam had to know how to tell the difference between a werewolf and a Pomeranian, right? And the dog was fine, even if Sam had trampled over Mrs. Katchin’s prize roses while he was trying to get away from her pet.

And that dealer had been an honest mistake. No way Dean ever lost twelve hands in a row without something supernatural and evil involved. How was he supposed to know it was the casino and not the employee? Still, it had been pretty amusing to watch Sam explain to Harvey Morganstern why he had been jumped, tied up, and then doused with water while two men stood over him chanting Latin. Dean grinned.

“Okay, so I’m not fucking with you now.”

“Yeah, just realized that.” Sam paused, looking out through the windshield and drumming his fingers on the dashboard. And just like that, he was finally onboard. “A chupacabra, hunh? So why do you think it switched to killing humans?”

Dean took that as his cue to get moving again; if they pushed, they could be in Panoquot by nightfall. Back to work. Dean rolled his shoulders and arched his chest, stretching. Damn it felt good to be able to do that again without his ribs going nuclear on him. Poltergeist had thrown that bureau at him _hard_.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one question needs answering here.”

“What?”

“How do we kill the little bloodsucker?”


	2. A Little Taste of Mexico

Sam stepped into the motel room and stopped abruptly. Dean ran into his back with a muffled grunt. “What’s the hold up, dude?”

“Uh, Dean? Are you sure we’re in Maine?”

Dean snorted. “What the hell kind of question is that? Of course we’re in Maine: we’ve been in Maine for four hours now.” He nudged Sam’s shoulder with his own, trying to force his way by, and Sam pushed back reflexively. Halted again, Dean growled, “What the hell is wrong with you, Sammy?”

Sam twisted his head back toward his brother and shrugged. “Sorry. Old habit.” He stepped out of the way, still loosely gripping his bag, and watched for Dean’s reaction.

“Yeah, well, I guess I should be glad you’re finally using your instin…Well, shit.”

“Yeah. You know, maybe there’s something to this chupacabra thing after all.”

Dean spared Sam a glance before returning his gaze to their home for the next week or so. “Well, well, Mr. Skeptical finally gets with the program. Somebody pinch me.”

“Ha ha.” But Sam’s heart wasn’t in it. He was too busy trying to take in the motel room’s decor. They’d been in a lot of rooms over the years, and he’d seen a lot of questionable choices. Like the room in Myrtle Beach that had been painted to mimic an underwater reef. Or the motel in Memphis with the mirrored ceiling and the life-size statue of Elvis behind the door. The motel owner had been lucky that Sam had been quick enough to stop his brother from emptying a round into that monstrosity. Those rooms had been weird, sure enough, but at least they fit the locale.

Number 3 at Bill’s Hideaway Lodge had walls the color of sand and a red-brown carpet. Tiny sombreros were stenciled along the top of the walls, and the door to the bathroom bore a large etching of a cactus. Where the usual paintings should have hung, there was instead a cattle skull, a cheap-looking peace pipe, and a ratty cowhide. Sam shook his head, trying to rid himself of the feeling that somewhere back on the road they had gone through a space warp and ended up south of the border.

Dean, of course, was already over his surprise and dropping his bag on one of the twin beds, both of which were draped with a distinctive, faux Native American blanket. Turning back to Sam, he rubbed his hands together briskly. “So, food?” he said hopefully.

There were two restaurants in town: one Mom and Pop greasy spoon and a Mexican joint. Dean didn’t bother asking before pulling into Carnitas and then practically bounced out of the car. Sam followed more slowly: his brother was far too excited about this whole hunt for any good to come of it.

Inside, Dean took a cursory look at the menu and then grinned up at the waitress and asked what she recommended. Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes, pretending to be engrossed in his own menu instead.

The girl was just Dean’s type: pretty and breathing. Of course, she was also a local, and therefore a possible lead, which meant that Sam had to just sit back and let his brother go to work. Which was annoying as hell when the girl in question seemed reasonably interesting for once. And had the most fascinating pair of brown eyes. Oh well, at least Dean wasn’t being entirely sleazy. He was actually acting like a perfect gentleman for once.

Dean ordered a couple of steak burritos and then leaned forward, eyes lighting as though a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “Say, has anyone ever told you that you have the most beautiful eyes? No, seriously. I work for Revlon—here on vacation with my associate here. You ever considered modeling?”

Okay, so much for the perfect gentleman. Sam cleared his throat. Loudly. Dean didn’t even bother glancing at him, but his grin turned into a smirk as he reached out and snagged Sam’s menu.

“Sorry about Sam; he gets tongue-tied around beautiful women.” Dean handed the menu to the waitress, brushing her hand as he did so. God, the man had more moves than a championship chess tournament. “He’ll have the same, if that’s okay, Missy.”

Missy. Of course her name was Missy. If it hadn’t been, it just would have been something equally brainless: Tiffany, Amber, Candy, and once, memorably, Buffy. It had taken Dean months to shut up about that one.

“ _Revlon_ , Dean?” Sam demanded when Missy had retreated back into the kitchen.

“Yeah, why not?” Dean leaned back in the booth and stretched, popping something.

Sam’s stomach clenched at the wince of pain, quickly concealed, that flashed across his brother’s face. “Your ribs?”

“What?” Confusion quickly shifted into annoyance. “Dude, I’m fine. Just a little cramped from driving.” Sam pressed his lips together, not sure whether to believe his brother. Dean had certainly seemed all right for the past few days, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility for the man to be shamming. This was Dean, after all. Dean, who had spent almost a week walking around on a broken foot before Dad had noticed that his toes were the same color as week-old hamburger.

“You sure?” Sam prodded.

“Jesus. Yeah, _Grandma_ , I’m sure.”

Sam felt himself flush but before he could respond Missy was back with a basket of tortilla chips and a bowl of salsa. “Here you are,” she said, smiling at Dean.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” If Sam had tried calling her that, he would have been slapped with a sexual harassment suit before their meal was up, but Dean? Dean got a grin and a playful push at his shoulder. Sometimes life wasn’t fair. Not that Sam _wanted_ to pick up every pretty girl from here to California, of course. But it would have been nice to know he could. It was the principal of the thing.

“So, where do you go for fun around here?” Dean was leaning on the table with one elbow.

“Well, this ain’t New York, but there’s a place to go if you’ve got a hankering for a little after-hours R’n’R. Just down off of Route 1 a ways past the church. Huerta’s.”

“Huerta. That’s a Mexican name, isn’t it?”

Missy laughed. “Sure is! Serve cerveza from south of the border there, too.”

“That’s a little strange,” Sam said, earning himself a quick warning glare from Dean.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Dean added, and then cleared his throat. “But we were wondering: first the motel, then the restaurant…”

“You’re staying at Bill’s? What am I saying, of course you are!” She laughed, a throaty sound that made Sam regret—a little—that he didn’t do random one night stands like his brother. “The rooms’re a little far out, hunh?”

“You could say that,” Dean admitted.

“Well, sure. Bill’s married to Carlita. Her family came up here in the ‘30s along with a couple of others. Getting away from some kind of oppression down in Mexico. They did really well here, started some businesses that just up and took off. There’s Bill’s, Huerta’s, The Yellow Goat—” Dean shot Sam a significant glance. “—that’s a craft store, does a lot of business during the summer. Oh, and Carnitas.” She gestured at the restaurant around them. “Took a while for the place to hit its stride, but by the time Ernesto inherited it from his dad, he was doing enough business to add the side patio on. You should see it in the summer: he really decks it out. Does cookouts on the weekends and the whole town shows up.” She smiled. “We’ve kind of embraced the whole culture.”

“Missy! Stop your jawing and get in here!”

“Oh, that’ll be your food. I’ll be right back.”

Dean watched appreciatively as Missy hurried away. “Well, that explains the sombreros,” he mused.

“It might explain more than that. Dean? Dean!” Sam snapped, trying to pull his brothers attention back from the vanishing waitress.

“Hmm? What?”

“This may explain why a chupacabra’s here. Either they brought it with them when they immigrated, or it tracked them up here, or someone brought back more than just souvenirs from their last trip to visit with the in-laws.”

Dean grabbed a chip and dunked it into the salsa, then shoved it into his mouth. “If they brought it with them,” he mumbled around bites, “Why haven’t we heard about it before?”

Sam considered, averting his eyes so that he didn’t have to actually watch the tortilla chip dissolve in his brother’s mouth. “Maybe it’s been hibernating. Or maybe it’s been feeding on the local wildlife and just ran out of food. Or the locals know what it is and have been keeping it quiet. Or someone’s been keeping it as a pet and it escaped. There’s a hundred explanations.”

“Yeah,” Dean stuffed another chip in his mouth. “But only one right one. You’ve gotta try this, dude: it’s great!”

Watching as Dean grabbed a handful of chips from the basket and dipped them en masse into the salsa, Sam shook his head. “I think I’ll pass.”

Dean quirked one eyebrow upward. “You sick or something?”

“I’m fine.” Sam stared out the window while Dean tilted his head back and crammed the fistful of dripping chips into his mouth.

“Cause—mmph—you usually inhale everything—mmph—that’s not bolted down.”

Sam heard his brother swallow and risked looking back. Half the basket was already gone, vanished down into the black hole that masqueraded as Dean’s stomach. He snorted. “Look who’s talking. You know, Dean, the chips aren’t going to grow legs and run off on you.”

Dean shrugged. “You never know, dude. This one time in Santa Fe…” He stopped himself abruptly as Missy approached the table, smoothly shifting gears and offering her a smile that most women seemed to find charming.

“Say, honey, can we get some more of these chips? Sam here can’t get enough of them. I told him to lay off the carbs, but he just doesn’t listen. He’s getting a little chubby around the middle, though. Aren’t you, Sammy?”

Sam shot his brother a warning glare that he quickly tempered with a grin in Missy’s direction, but the brunette wasn’t paying him any attention.

“I’m sorry, guys,” she said, expression serious, “but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. There’s been a…we’re gonna have to shut down the restaurant early tonight.”

Sam looked at the girl more closely and saw that, although she was holding it together pretty well, there were unshed tears in her eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked quickly before Dean could say something typically insensitive and ill-timed. He loved his brother, but the guy had only a nodding acquaintance with tact.

“It…” The tears she had been fighting slid down her cheeks and she brusquely wiped them away with the back of one hand. “I’m so sorry. I—There’s been an a-attack, we…Isabel—Ernesto’s daughter—she’s been…” She broke off, unable to say it, but she didn’t need to. Sam had heard similar words all too often: it was one of his least favorite things about the job.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

Missy sniffed. “No, it…it’s okay. I’m sorry for freaking out on you. And for your dinner.”

“We’ll manage,” Sam told her quickly. “Can we do anything?”

Missy shook her head. “No, thanks. Just…” She glanced back at the door to the kitchen, where the sound of raised voices was beginning to make itself heard. “I have to go.”

“We understand.” Sam hastily slid himself out of the booth, kicking Dean as he did so. Dean shot him a glare as he followed suit. “I hope…I hope everything turns out all right.” Which was a lame thing to say, but Sam couldn’t think of anything else and Dean was actually keeping his mouth shut for once.

“Me too,” Missy agreed. “And I’m real sorry about throwing you out like this.”

“It’s fine,” Sam assured her. “I’m just sorry…Ow!”

Dean had _kicked_ him. Hard. In the shin. Okay, Sam had kicked Dean first, but not hard, and it was so not the time for this stupid retaliation shit.

“Sorry.” Dean sounded completely sincere, but Sam recognized the gleam in his brother’s eyes as he rubbed at his calf with one hand. “Charley horse. Look, we’ll just get out of your hair.”

Missy nodded, attention already drifting back toward the kitchen area. “Sure, thanks.”

“No problem.” Then Dean was dragging Sam toward the door, under the pretense of leaning on him while he limped out. And Sam was sure that, charley horse excuse notwithstanding, it would have looked more than a little strange to Missy if she had been paying any attention. But, although she followed them, her eyes were turned over her shoulder toward the sound of voices.

Sam waited until Missy had closed and locked the door behind them before shoving Dean off and then rounding on him. “What the hell, man?”

“Dude, you kicked me first, remember?”

“Dean, I was talking to a potential source—a _grieving_ potential source.”

“And that conversation was really going somewhere. She’s sorry, you’re sorry, she’s sorry…One more sorry and I was gonna make sure you had something to be sorry about.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s called being considerate.”

“No, it’s called being a fucking moron. Couldn’t you tell she just wanted to get back to her friends? You know, the people she actually gives a shit about?”

“I was just trying to help.”

“She doesn’t need some complete stranger yammering on at her when she’s just found out that someone she knows is laid out on a slab missing a few quarts of blood.”

“We don’t know that this attack was done by the…” Sam couldn’t bring himself to say it, but luckily Dean knew what he meant anyway.

“Right. And how many sudden deaths do you think they get up here? Not a whole lot, I’d think. You want to wager that this is just a happy coincidence or you think our little Mexican friend had something to do with this, just like it did with the last three?”

Sam let out a tight sigh. “Fine. It probably is connected. I still don’t see why you had to…”

“That’s why I’m in charge and you’re just the sidekick, Poncho.” Dean turned his back on Sam and headed for the Impala. “I figure we hook up the scanner and find out where they found the body. Town this small, there’s what? Two, three cops at most? One at the morgue with the body, then two to talk to the grieving family.”

“Leaving the scene abandoned,” Sam finished, catching on. “Especially since they’re probably pinning this all on a wild animal.”

“Hole in one.” Dean unlocked the door and slid inside, leaning over to pop the lock on Sam’s side. As Sam climbed in, he added, “We get there soon enough, maybe we can find some trace of this thing—tracks or something. Of course, if you’d rather head back into the restaurant and apologize to Missy some more…”

“You still didn’t have to kick me,” Sam grumbled, hunching back into the seat. “Do you even know what the word subtle means?”

“Sure I do, Sammy.” Dean grinned broadly. “But my way’s more fun.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It turned out that Panoquot actually boasted four fine officers of the law, and one of them had stayed behind to make sure no one messed with the scene. And sure, normally a pot-bellied, gun-toting, cigar-smoking cop would provide a fine deterrent, but he was dealing with a Winchester now. Dean had been eating guys like this for breakfast since he was fifteen.

“Evening, Officer,” he said, offering the man his best professional smile. “I’m Agent Ralphs and this is my partner, Agent Burrell. He gestured to Sam, who nodded his own greeting. “We’re with the FBI.” He flashed an ID and then quickly pocketed it again. The forgery would hold up to pretty close scrutiny, but there was no sense asking for trouble. Besides, it was mainly all about the attitude. Act like you had a right to be there and the local law usually assumed you did.

“Kevin Rooker,” the cop grunted, eyeing them up and down in the flickering wash of his cruiser’s lights. “What’s the Bureau want in Panoquot?”

“We heard about your little problem,” Dean said smoothly. “The details are similar to a case we’ve been working.” Kevin’s eyes widened and Dean resisted the urge to grin. The man had taken the bait, and now all they had to do was reel him in.

“You think it’s a serial?” Kevin breathed.

“We’re not at liberty to discuss that at this juncture.” Sam gestured toward the area at the taped off area at the side of the road. “That where you found the body?”

“Well, uh, actually Joe found it—Sheriff Joe Montera, that is.”

Dean was already moving, flashlight up and searching, which left Sam to deal with Officer Rooker. Now that his face was hidden, Dean grinned. His heart was pounding rapidly in his chest, like it always did when they were on a job and out in the field instead of holed up in some stuffy library.

He could hear Sam behind him, asking questions and trying to dig out whatever bits of information the good officer had. And distracting him from looking too closely at what Dean was doing. Of course, it never hurt to be careful, so Dean glanced back over his shoulder before pulling out the EMF reader and pointing it at the mussed pile of leaves on the other side of the tape.

No reading, but Dean hadn’t really been expecting one. He’d never dealt with a chupacabra before, though—had never heard of any hunter who had—and he was going to do this one as carefully as possible. Cover all his bases and shit. If they got lucky, they’d have this thing tagged and bagged by tomorrow night.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Dean jumped, nearly dropping the EMF reader. The flashlight fell out of his mouth, where it had been hanging while he scanned the ground. _Damnit!_ he swore at himself. _You know better than to get caught up in what you’re doing! What if he’d been that chupacabra, back for a little snack? Stupid, Winchester. Real stupid._

“Well, Sam,” he said, juggling the reader so he could retrieve his flashlight. “This is an EMF read—”

“I know that, Dean. What I’m asking is why you’re using it. We’re dealing with a chu…well, a corporeal creature here, not a spectral emission.”

Dean shrugged and shoved the EMF reader back into his pocket, standing up. “We’ve never dealt with a chupacabra before. I’m just covering my bases.” He aimed the flashlight back toward the cop cruiser, where Officer Rooker was settling himself behind the wheel, and then fastened it on Sam’s face. “What’s up with the cop? You were supposed to keep him busy.”

Sam blinked and held up one hand to fend the light off. “Get that thing out of my face, Dean.” When Dean compromised and dipped the flashlight slightly, Sam continued, “I told him we’d babysit the crime scene while he went and grabbed some coffee.”

“Okay, great. You gonna help me search?”

Sam shrugged. “Sure. How do you want to work this?”

“Check the place the cops roped off, see if you can find anything. I’m gonna see if there’s any tracks in there.” He swung back around toward the woods, trying to peer into the shadows. Damn, it was dark in there. The chupacabra could be watching them right now and they wouldn’t know it. He thought of the gun nestled at the small of his back and smiled slightly.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam agreed, pulling out his own flashlight. “Just stay close, man. It could still be out there.”

Oh, if _only_. Dean flexed his hand as he skirted around the police tape, heading further into the woods. Let the sucker come for him. He had a pistol full of bullets that were just dying to make its acquaintance.

It was as dark as he’d imagined it would be beneath the trees. The thin beam of his flashlight was more of a hindrance than a help, really, destroying his night vision and only revealing small slices of forest to him at a time. He grunted in annoyance and snapped it off. Stood where he was and waited for his eyes to adjust before advancing.

Dean could hear Sam scuffling through the pile of leaves behind the police tape as he made his own survey. Hopefully the kid was having more luck than Dean because he was turning up a big fat nothing out here. It had been a while since he’d seen this type of heavy underbrush and he was having difficulty remembering what to look for. It’d come back to him, of course, but right now he felt like a blind man trying to describe the color red.

He took a break finally and rolled his head back, stretching his neck. Glanced over his shoulder and frowned when he had to squint to make out the bob and weave of Sam’s flashlight. He hadn’t thought that he’d come so far from the road. Maybe he should head back, get closer to…

Somewhere off to his left, further away from the road, a branch snapped.

Dean twisted, eyes wide and trying to penetrate the darkness. He could hear rustling now: something creeping around out there and trying to be inconspicuous. He reached carefully behind himself and brought out the gun, slid the safety off. Then he stepped toward the noise, heartbeat reverberating in his skull.

God, was it going to be this easy? Was it really? A little stalk and shoot and that’s it? Another branch broke, closer to him, and he adjusted his grip on the gun. _Come on, you bastard._

He was raising his gun, sighting down the barrel, and then something tackled him from behind and Dean found himself shoved face-first into a pile of wet leaves. The gun slipped from his hand as he hit, and when he went after it, thing on his back pushed him more firmly onto the ground. He opened his mouth to shout for Sam and got a mouthful of something wet and cold— _leaves, please let it be only leaves_ —instead. Then there were hands clamping onto his wrists and jerking his arms back and he could hear someone yelling, “I’ve got ‘em! Bring me the cuffs, Harv!”

Cuffs? Oh, damn it all to hell.

“Wait!” Sam’s voice, accompanied by the sound of the ginormous bastard trampling through the underbrush.

“Sheriff? That’s my partner you’ve got there. I’m Agent Burrell. With the Bureau?”

The man kneeling on Dean’s back grunted. “You got ID?” There was a long pause—didn’t they understand that Dean was breathing fucking compost here?—and then, finally, the man said, “Okay, stand down, Harv.”

Then he was climbing off and hauling Dean up by the back of his jacket. Dean pulled himself free and whipped around to find himself facing a stout man with a broad, beard-covered face. Sheriff Montera grinned, watching with good-humor as Dean spat out forest debris.

“Sorry ‘bout that misunderstanding, Agent. We thought you might’ve been up to no good, sneaking around out here like that.”

Yeah, Dean just _bet_ he was real sorry about the whole mess. He could especially note the sheriff’s sincerity in the way the man couldn’t keep himself from laughing as Dean retrieved his gun and stomped back to the Impala, trying valiantly to piece together the shattered remnants of his dignity as he went.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean was in a foul mood as he drove back. Sam could tell because he was blasting Master of Puppets at full volume, and ignoring Sam’s pointed winces. Sam had tried snapping the music off once or twice when Dean was like this, and the results hadn’t been pretty, so he’d learned to ignore it. Maybe Dean would be a little calmer once they got back to the motel.

Of course, as Dean pulled up in front, wrenched the engine off, slammed the Impala’s door shut in Sam’s face, and stomped into the room, Sam pretty much gave up on that.

He followed Dean in slowly, trying to come up with some kind of opening gambit. Things hadn’t gone well back at the crime scene, but they could hardly have been called disastrous, and Sam had seen Dean roll with worse punches. Course, he’d never actually seen his brother spit chunks of wet leaf out of his mouth before.

“You raised in a barn, Sam?”

“Hunh?” Sam looked at his brother warily.

“The door?” Dean made a shutting motion with one hand, face twisted in his “and this is the guy they accepted at Stanford” expression.

“Oh, right.” Sam ducked his head and shoved the door closed with one hand, then leaned against it. “So, you, uh, wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Dean just looked at him, nostrils flaring.

Sam knew he should really be shutting up right about now, but the safety valve between his mouth and his head must have been rusted shut because he added, “I mean, you kinda went a little postal back there, man.”

“Yeah, well, being jumped by a bunch of backwoods morons’ll do that to me every time.”

“They were just doing their jobs.”

“No, Sam, they were screwing up _our_ job. I almost had the fucker!”

“Dean, we don’t even know if that was the chu—chupacabra.” Sam stumbled over the word a little, feeling absolutely ridiculous for having to say it. On the scale of how fucked up their lives were, this was rapidly outpacing the killer truck incident.

“It was sneaking around near the scene, Sam. What else could it have been?”

“I don’t know! A deer, a coyote maybe? You were in the _woods_ , dude. There _is_ natural wildlife out here. And you didn’t even see it.”

“Yeah, but I heard the son of a bitch. A few more steps and I could’ve—”

“You could’ve _what_ , Dean? Even if it was the chupacabra, we don’t know how to kill it. What’d you have on you? A gun? What if bullets don’t do anything?”

“Then I would’ve tried my knife.” Dean hiked one leg up on the table and pulled a 6-inch hunting knife from inside his boot.

Sam sighed. “You are so lucky they didn’t search us.”

“What, a man’s not allowed to carry a knife?”

“Dean, we were posing as F.B.I. agents. I don’t think the Bureau hands out blades to its graduates.”

Dean shoved the knife back into its sheath. “Well, they should. Do you know how much shit there is out there that a few good slices’ll take care of?”

Sam knew. Of course he knew. But he wasn’t packing knives everywhere he went like some kind of paranoid psycho. He opened his mouth to say so and then shut it again. How much of the reason he went unarmed so often was because Dean was always armed to the teeth? How much of it was because Dean trailed him around like a living, breathing weapon?

Dean chose to take his silence as agreement. “See, Sammy? I knew you’d see it my way.”

“That’s not the point,” Sam started, but forced himself to stop. Dean was relaxed again—still annoyed about being tackled by an overzealous cop, but not pissed off anymore. “Look, even if the police hadn’t come back, there wasn’t much else we could do there anyway. We are _not_ going after this thing until we know how to kill it.”

“Won’t know if we don’t try, Sam.”

“What happened to covering our bases?”

Dean rolled his shoulders in a loose shrug, but Sam caught the tightening of his mouth. Dean had gotten the scent of the thing now, and was obviously determined to go charging after it with both guns blazing until it was nothing more than a smoking piece of meat.

He sat down on the edge of his bed and tried to reason with his brother. “At least let us go in more prepared. And together. Man, I was over sixty feet away. What were you going to do if it jumped you?”

“Aside from cut it to shreds?” At Sam’s frustrated scowl, Dean added, “Besides, you’ve got long legs. You could’ve gotten there.”

“What if I tripped, Dean? It was dark as hell in there. Or what if I couldn’t find you in time?”

“You would’ve.” Dean’s voice was certain and through his concern, Sam felt a stab of pride that Dean trusted him to have his back.

“So,” Dean said, clearing his throat. “What’ve we got? You find anything before the ranger patrol showed up?”

“Actually, I did.” Sam reached into his pocket and felt around, then came out with a small white object. He held it out to his brother.

“This looks like a vamp fang,” Dean said, face falling.

“Yeah, it does,” Sam agreed. “But I think it’s a little big. You still have the one Dad gave us?”

Dean nodded and strode past Sam on his way out to the car. They had a small stash of supernatural curiosities in the trunk: werewolf claw, manticore spike, vampire fang. Sometimes it came in handy when they needed to make a comparison. Like now.

Dean returned, head bent as he studied the fangs cradled in his right hand. “I think you’re right,” he said, raising his palm up so Sam could take a look. “It’s definitely bigger, and there’s this groove here—see?—that’s missing from the vamp fang.”

“Looks like you were right, Dean.”

Dean grinned widely. _Jesus, he’s like a kid in a candy shop._ “Yeah. So you think this son of a bitch has fangs to spare? Cause this could slow it down for a while.”

“Or it could be similar to vampires: shark-teeth.”

“Mmm.” He closed his hand around the fangs and shook them slightly. “So I think we should go to the town hall tomorrow. See if we can find out if the vics had anything in common. Maybe get some kind of clue where it’s gonna show up again.”

“That’s a good idea. We should probably talk to the relatives of the victims too. See if there’s anything there.”

“Right.” Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder. “You can go talk to good old Ernesto, Sammy. Maybe you’ll run into Missy and you can have another round of apologies.”


	3. Leads and the Lovelorn

Dean ended up going to the town hall alone while Sam worked the rounds of the victim’s families. Sam was better at that sympathy shit anyway, and Dean wanted a little time alone. He and Sam had been in each other’s faces since Charlette, and he needed to get away from the kid for a few hours. Take in the sights, if there were any in this town.

Maybe he should swing by the restaurant later, see if Missy was there. Although Dean hadn’t really gotten that vibe from her. Seemed like ginormous geeks were more her type. Well, fine. Kid needed to unwind some, and Missy sure as hell seemed like the type of girl to help him with that. Dean smirked as he pushed open the main doors to the town hall, then instantly toned it down when he saw the matronly grandmother sitting at the reception desk.

She frowned at him. “May I help you?” Her tone indicated that it was an unlikely prospect.

“I sure hope so, ma’am.” He pulled out the F.B.I. id he’d used last night and flashed it at her. “I’m with the Bureau. My partner and I are here investigating a case. I was hoping I could get a look at some of your records.”

Her expression loosened somewhat. “F.B.I., hunh? Joe told me about the mix-up last night.”

 _If that’s what you wanted to call it when two hundred and fifty pounds of sheriff slams into you at about twenty miles an hour._ Good thing his ribs were all healed up. Dean forced himself to laugh. “He did, did he?”

“I can see why he made the mistake. I thought the F.B.I. had a dress code.”

What? Was she insulting his coat? Women _loved_ his coat.

“Suits aren’t all that practical for climbing around in the woods, ma’am.”

She sniffed. “I suppose not. Records are through there in the back. We’ve got some of the newer ones on the computer, but anything before the fifties and you’re gonna have to use the paper copies.”

Great. Just great. Where was his trusty research boy when he needed him? Oh yeah. Dean had volunteered himself for this and sent Sam out on his own. Because he was just that brilliant. He smiled stiffly at the receptionist. “That’ll be fine, ma’am. Thanks.”

Four hours later, he was covered in dust, nursing hands that were covered in paper cuts, and ready to shoot the first person who so much as looked at him cross-eyed. Also, he thought that he was going to need glasses after this: the lighting in the records room was worse than sparse, the only bulb that still worked in the ceiling fixtures constantly flickering. And most of the records seemed to have been written by a left-handed, dyslexic twelve year old. Hadn’t these people ever heard of typewriters?

On the other hand, he had uncovered a few interesting pieces of information.

He shoved the last file back into its moldering box and pulled his coat back on. Time to find Sam.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Thanks.” Sam smiled up at Missy, whose eyes looked red and sore. And she still looked great. _Damnit, Sam, don’t go there._ She was probably into Dean anyway.

Still, she smiled back at him weakly. “You’re welcome. You ready to order?”

“Um…” Sam fumbled with the glass of Coke she had just brought him. “This is good, really." He cleared his throat. "I actually didn’t come here for lunch.”

“Oh?” She blinked at him, confused.

“I wanted to see how you were holding up.”

“That’s sweet.” She nodded, hands moving nervously on her order pad. “But I don’t want to ruin your vacation. You should be out with your friend, enjoying yourself.”

“Um, yeah, about that.” Sam fought down the flush that wanted to cover his face. Damn Dean and his flirting. This would have been so much easier if his brother hadn’t pulled out the Revlon line. Because now Sam had to fix it: in a town this small, Missy was bound to hear the cover story they had going with the local law. And she might tell Sam the F.B.I. agent something that she wouldn’t have told Sam the Revlon Associate.

“We’re not actually here on vacation. Dean was…well, Dean was being a pig. We’re here on assignment with the F.B.I.”

“Oh.” And Missy’s face tightened. “Then I’m sure you have work to do.”

Sam grabbed her wrist as she started to turn away. “Wait. Look, I’m sorry about my partner. He can be a real jerk, sometimes.”

“I’m not dumb, you know. Just because I live in the boonies doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

“I didn’t think it did—”

“You two think it’s funny? Messing with the local girls? What, did you think I’d screw you for a shot at a modeling gig?”

Sam winced. “No, it’s not like that, okay?” Well, maybe it was like that for Dean. “Look, I can’t control what my partner does.”

“Maybe not, but you didn’t say anything to contradict him either. What, did you two have some kind of bet going on? See if your pretty partner could get me into bed or not?”

“Of course not! It’s just…Dean’s difficult to deal with, sometimes.”

Missy scowled at him. “Enjoy your Coke, Agent.” She scribbled something on her pad and then slammed it down in front of him. “Pay at the register whenever you’re ready.”

“Wait!” And he reached for her hand again. She jerked it out of his reach, crossed her arms against her chest. The look on her face said that she would sooner kick Sam in the balls than smile at him. “Look, can I just… I have to ask you some questions, about Isabel.”

Missy’s jaw quivered slightly. “It’s a serial killer, isn’t it? Some messed up freak wandered up here, didn’t he?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. It’d help if you could answer some questions for me. Please.”

Missy stared at him for a moment and then nodded. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

“Do you want to sit down?” Sam gestured at the empty seat across from him.

“Not really, no.”

Yeah, he couldn’t really blame her. “Okay.” Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably and then said, “Isabel was Ernesto Morelos’ daughter?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you close?”

Missy shrugged. “Sure. She was younger than me, just a kid still, but she was fun. We hung out sometimes, talked…She was smart, you know? Got accepted to Dartmouth.”

“And when was the last time you spoke with her?”

“Day before yesterday. We went to the movies.”

“Did she mention anything…out of the ordinary? Strange noises? Feeling of being watched or followed?”

“No, nothing.”

“What about the other victims: Carl Grinburg, Miguel Bracho, and Veronica Rios. Did you know any of them?”

“Carl went to school with me. Miguel played poker with my dad every Friday, and Ronnie babysat for me when I was younger.” She smiled wryly. “Panoquot’s a small town: everybody knows everybody else here.”

“Is there anything connecting the four of them? Something they all had in common?”

“Not really. That’s strange, isn’t it? Aren’t serial killers supposed to have a type or something?”

Sam grunted noncommittally.

“You’re going to find him, right? I mean, no offense, but you guys are actually _good_ at your job? You don’t spend all your time trying to lie the locals into bed?”

“We take our job very seriously.” Liable to wind up dead if they didn’t. “And Dean…well, despite what you may think, Dean’s really good at what he does. We’ll get Isabel’s killer, don’t worry.”

Missy glared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, then. Anything else you wanted to know?”

Sam hesitated, and then plunged ahead. He hadn’t gotten a bite from anyone else he’d spoken with, but there was always the chance they were keeping secrets: it had been known to happen. And he’d gotten the impression from some of them—Eva Bracho and Amada Rios, especially—that there was something they hadn’t wanted to mention.

“Just one thing. Are there any local legends? About those families that moved here in the thirties?”

Missy frowned at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m just trying to do my job.” Sam tried to put the truth behind that into his face, tried to project earnestness, and it must have worked because Missy’s face softened and she slid into the booth across from him.

“Okay. I don’t know what good it could do, but there is something. Isabel told me once when we were sweeping up after closing.”

Sam’s heart hammered hopefully in his chest and he sat up straighter. Finally, someone was talking. Of course, it might be nothing, but then again… He listened as Missy spoke, and as her story progressed, he grew more and more certain that _this_ was the lead they’d been looking for. Dean was going to flip when Sam told him.

“…of course, Ernesto told me it was a load of horseshit when I asked him. Said they’d left because of political persecution and everything else was just active imagination.” She tilted her head, studying him. “That helps, doesn’t it? I don’t know how it could, but it does.”

Sam nodded. “It helps. It helps a lot. Thank you.”

Missy shrugged. “I just want that sicko caught. I want him to pay for what he did to Isabel and the others.”

“He will.” Well, _it_ would, but pronouns were such problematic things when dealing with outsiders.

Missy moved to get out of the booth and then hesitated, looking back at Sam. “Look, I’m sorry about earlier. It isn’t your fault that your partner’s a dick. I was angry, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“It’s okay. I should have said something.” He smiled, expecting her to leave now, but she just sat there, looking at him. Finally, she licked her lips nervously and leaned across the table toward him.

“This is probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, considering the circumstances, but… Are you working tonight?”

Sam blinked, confused. “Um… Depends on what my partner found out. Probably, but not until late. We, uh, do most of our work after midnight.”

“Well, if you’re not working, would you…would you want to get a drink?”

It startled a small laugh out of him. “Are you asking me out?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because you seem nice.” The smile that had been playing at the corners of her mouth deepened. “And because you’re awful attractive, for an F.B.I. agent.”

“Ummm…” God, why could he never find the right words around pretty girls? If Dean were here, he’d know what to say. He’d…lie to get into her pants. Not that his brother had to lie, generally. Probably only did it for his own amusement. Dean had always liked role-playing. A little more geeking and a little less hunting and Dean would have made the perfect Dungeon Master, not that Sam was ever admitting that he knew such people existed, never mind what they did. _Focus, Sam._

“Uh,” he tried again.

“Am I interrupting something?” Dean was standing next to the table, grinning down at him. Missy glared up at Dean, then dismissed him and turned her attention back to Sam.

“Look, if you want to, then I get off around six. You should come. It’d be…nice.” Then she was sliding out of the booth and brushing past Dean with an icy sniff. Dean watched her go appreciatively and then shook his head as he took the seat she’d just vacated.

“If she just did what I think she did, then you should totally go for it.”

“You’re a pig, you know that?”

Dean shrugged. “I’m honest—”

Sam snorted.

“—If a girl’s hot, I say she’s hot. And Missy? Definitely hot. Also, definitely into you. Ergo, you should go for it.”

“ _Ergo_?”

Dean waved one hand. “Been stuck in the archives all day, dude. Give me a break.”

Sam sighed and shook himself a little. Now was not the time to have a discussion about his brother’s libido, and it was also not the time to be wondering what Missy’s lips would feel like. Even if he suspected they would feel really, really nice.

He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat to ask, “You find anything?”

Dean grabbed Sam’s untouched Coke and dragged it toward himself. Nodded and took a long swig. Sam considered complaining and then let it go. He wasn’t really thirsty anyway.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said, swirling the soda lazily. “Turns out that there were five families that immigrated here in the thirties. Brought a bunch of money with them and bought up half the town when they got here. Lot of the surrounding area, too. Kept the town going during the Depression. Their descendants have lost some of what they had, but there’s this stretch of land to the north that’s solid Mexican. Owned by the Bracho and Rios families. And all the attacks have happened along roads passing by that area, specifically by the Rioses’ farm. Course, I couldn’t find anything to tell me why.”

“I did. Missy just told me. There _is_ a local legend, Dean. And according to the legend, the Rioses didn’t leave Mexico because of political persecution at all. They left because they were trying to outrun a curse.”

Dean raised one eyebrow. “What kind of curse?”

“The kind where all their livestock kept getting killed off.” Sam leaned closer over the table and dropped his voice. “I bet someone bound it to them, Dean. Some rival farmer or something. And when their friends decided to strike out for a new chance in the States, they hoped that they could leave it behind if they went along.”

“And curses aren’t the type of thing you outrun.” Dean nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, that could explain how the thing got up here. But why did it escalate? Start attacking humans?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe it ran out of food. From what I hear, the Rios aren’t exactly mainstream farmers anymore.”

“Or maybe someone decided that chomping on a few goats wasn’t enough of a curse and decided to up the ante. Could be one of the other families. We should check, see if anyone’s got a grudge.”

Sam shook his head. “I already checked, Dean. There’s nothing.”

Dean tossed his head back and downed the rest of the Coke. “Doesn’t really matter, anyway,” he announced as he set the glass down. “At least we know where to look for it, now. If it’s tied to the Rioses, then it’s gotta be holed up somewhere on their land. Maybe near where Veronica Rios was killed. She was out there when she died, right? By, uh, Fox Run, wasn’t it? We can go check it out now, see if we can find anything.”

“I don’t know, Dean. Shouldn’t we do a little more research, find out why it’s changed its pattern?”

“Don’t worry, Sam. I’ll get you back in time for your date.”

“That isn’t what I—”

“You coming? Cause daylight’s wasting. Or maybe you want to try finding this thing in the dark.”

Sam rolled his eyes and followed Dean out of the booth.


	4. A Close Encounter

Sunlight shot down in spears through the leaves, but it was darker in here than Dean would have expected: there were more trees, packed closer together than he was used to. Weaving through the trunks, he kept one hand firmly on the butt of his gun, wishing that he could keep it out. If they ran into their friend the sheriff again, though, he didn’t want to have to explain why he was strolling through the woods with his piece drawn.

Sam moved close behind him, scanning the dim underbrush as they pushed through it. “It’s already getting dark,” he noted sourly.

“Dude, it’s only four. We’ve got at least another two hours.” Dean shrugged deeper into his coat. “The woods are just dense. Kinda like you. Heh.”

Sam ignored the jibe. “And that makes a difference how? We should come back tomorrow, in the morning, when there might actually be some light in here.”

“You want to be the one to tell the grieving family of tonight’s victim that we didn’t put the bastard down before it killed again because you’re afraid of the dark?”

“I am _not_ afraid of the dark, I’m just—”

“Are too.” Dean heard Sam’s annoyed snort from behind him and grinned.

“Can you stop being five for just one minute so we can have a rational conversation here?”

“Soon as you start making sense, Sammy, I’ll start listening.” He turned his head quickly as he caught a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye, and the gun was already out and in his hand before he registered the culprit as a scrawny squirrel. He debated shooting it on principal—little bastard had scared the shit out of him—and then let it go. He didn’t put the gun away, though. Screw the sheriff. Sam was right: it was dark in here. And quiet. Too quiet, as the saying went.

“Dean, look at this.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder, then turned and went back to where Sam was crouched next to a tree. “What is it?”

“Some kind of trail, I think,” Sam said, pointing off into the underbrush. Dean squinted and could—barely—make out what his brother was talking about. Sam had always been better at this woodsy tracking stuff than him: Dad said that he didn’t have the patience for it. Good thing he had his anal brother with him.

“You think it’s our guy?”

Sam shrugged. “Could be. If it isn’t, then it’ll at least point us in the right direction. The chupacabra had to be eating something before it turned to humans, and predators usually hunt along game trails. If it didn’t leave this track, we should still be able to find traces of it nearby.”

Dean dimly remembered all of that from his father’s lessons, so he nodded and slapped Sam on the back with his free hand. “Good job, dude. You take point.”

They’d been following the trail for a little over a half an hour when ‘too quiet’ became ‘silent as the grave’. Dean’s stomach gave an uneasy roll and he was just about to suggest that they pack it in for the day when the thing burst out of the bushes three feet to his right. He opened his mouth to shout a warning to Sam, pivoting and bringing the gun up to bear, and then it slammed heavily into his chest.

Dean heard something crack and sent a quick prayer to whatever was listening that that had been a branch and not his ribs and then he was on his back with about two hundred pounds of pissed off chupacabra on his chest. It snapped at his face, white spittle dripping from its jaws, and he barely got his hands up in time to block its lunge. He crossed his arms and shoved upward, forearms pressed into the thing’s throat, and then grunted in pain as it stepped on his chest while trying to scramble forward.

“Hey!” Sam shouted from in front of him, and then there was the sound of a gun being fired—three thunderclaps in rapid succession.

The chupacabra’s body jerked as the bullets impacted, but it didn’t stop or even slow in its frantic snarling and attempts to chew Dean’s face off. He heard Sam move closer and fire again, but the bullets weren’t doing anything: Sam either wasn’t hitting the right place, or he didn’t have the right kind of ammo, or this was more like your typical vampire than Dean had expected. Shoving harder on the chupacabra’s neck, he thought that Sam might have been right about the machetes, but seeing as they’d left them in the Impala’s trunk, he was going to have to improvise if he planned on staying alive for, oh, the next sixty seconds or so.

He twisted one wrist, the chupacabra’s ugly face—something of a cross between a pitbull, an iguana, and an ape—dropping closer as he did so, and brought the barrel of the gun up into its neck. Fumbled for the trigger, ignoring the saliva-slick feel of the gun— _Christ_ , this thing drooled a lot—and then grinned when he found it. He met the thing’s beady red eyes with his own, and let his smile widen.

“I’ve got something for you to chew on right here, bitch!” he growled, and then pulled the trigger.

Red showered his face and the chupacabra threw back its head and let out a howl. Half of its face was missing, and a good chunk of its neck. Dean could hear pieces of it raining down into the leaves around him. The chupacabra howled again, in pain and anger, and then scampered off of him, oversized feet pounding down onto his chest. A second later it was gone, crashing through the underbrush and braying its rage to the woods. Sucker was _fast_ , despite its size. Which…weren’t these things supposed to be smaller?

Dean tried to get up and then swore as pain lanced through his chest. Let himself drop back down onto the ground again and stared morosely up at the sky. “Goatsucking son of a whore!” he yelled.

“Dean!” Sam knelt next to him, hands darting out to feel for any holes in Dean’s neck underneath the chupacabra blood. “Are you okay? Did it bite you?”

Dean shook his head in answer to both questions and then groaned, “Bastard fucked up my ribs again.”

“How bad?” Sam asked anxiously. “Dean? How bad? Are they broken?”

Dean hesitated before admitting, “I don’t know.”

Sam shifted his weight, glancing around at the endless panorama of trees, and then frowned. “Well, shit.”

“You can say that again.” Dean tried to lever himself up again and bit his tongue to keep from screaming. Okay, moving was definitely not fun. Still, he didn’t think that it hurt any worse than it had after the poltergeist had introduced his chest to that large and rather ornate bureau, so maybe nothing was broken after all.

“Can you get up if I help you?”

Dean grimaced. Wished he’d managed to get a better shot off at the chupacabra or had been packing more serious ammo. They had exploding rounds in the trunk—worked great on werewolves and yetis: anything big and nasty, really—but he hadn’t thought that they’d need so much firepower. He’d seriously underestimated the chupacabra, which was faster, and bigger, and just plain _meaner_ than he’d been led to expect.

“I _asked_ , do you think you can—”

“I don’t know, all right?” God, he hated this. Anytime now, Sam was going to say he’d told him so, and then Dean was going to have to just sit there and take it because, damnit, Sam _had_ been right this time.

But Sam only said, “You’re going to have to try. We’re in the middle of nowhere; I don’t think that they could even manage to bring a stretcher out here.”

“No hospitals anyway, Sam,” Dean reminded his brother as Sam slid his left arm underneath his shoulders.

“Don’t be an idiot, Dean: we have to get you checked out.”

“Were supposed to be—ow, careful!—F.B.I. agents. You want to—watch it, damnit!—explain to our friend the sheriff why—fuck!—there’s one name on my badge and another on my insurance card?” Dean was panting now, sweat soaking his hair and running into his eyes, but he was standing, leaning most of his weight on Sam.

Sam grimaced. “I forgot. Shit.” Then he shook his head and started dragging Dean forward with him. “We’ll just go somewhere else—few towns over.”

“I’m not sitting in the car any longer than I have to, dude. Hell, I’m not sure I’ll make it to the motel without passing out. My baby’s not built to carry the walking wounded. ‘Sides, they’re just bruised, I think. I’ll be fine.”

Sam muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, ‘mini-van’ and Dean somehow found the reserves to glare at him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They managed to get back to the motel—how, Dean wasn’t quite sure, since he spent most of the time in a steadily-increasing fog of agony. At least he’d talked Sam out of trying to drive to one of the local hospitals. Even if his brother had only agreed to put it off until he’d checked Dean out himself and made sure that nothing was broken. Although Dean was fairly certain by now that his ribs had survived the ambush intact, if only because, after all the jostling it had taken to get him back to the car, he would otherwise have been breathing blood right now.

Still, that didn’t mean that Sam’s poking and prodding didn’t hurt.

“What’s the diagnosis, doc?” Dean groaned, edging himself carefully up into a sitting position.

“Well, I don’t think anything’s broken, but you’re bruised as hell.”

“You try having a two hundred pound chupacabra stand on your chest, see how you hold up.” Dean glanced down at himself. Yup, he looked real pretty right now, chest painted in dark purple and blue. “Can I have some Advil?” he asked, wincing as he shifted himself up so he could lean back against the headboard.

Sam wordlessly held out his hand, revealing two small white pills. “Take these. They should still be good.”

Ah, he’d forgotten they still had some Vicodin left over from their last hospital visit. Nice. Dean took the pills and tossed them back, swallowing them dry. Sam’s nose wrinkled: whenever he tried that he ended up choking on the pills. Which only went to prove how much of a girl he was.

“Okay,” Dean said, settling himself. “As soon as these kick in I’m gonna take a shower, get this stuff off me.” He gestured to the blood covering his face and hands. “And while I’m waiting, you’re gonna get ready for your date.”

Sam scowled. “I’m not leaving you here alone. You can barely move, and—”

“Dude, I’ll be fine once the pills kick in.” Dean tilted his head, considering, “Are you sure you aren’t gay? Cause you’d have to be either dead or gay to turn down a date with—”

“I’m not going, Dean, so you can drop it.”

“Yeah, you are. We need her, Sam.”

“What?”

Dean smiled patiently. “We need Missy to get the Rioses to talk to us. You catch more flies with honey, or in this case, more girls with—”

“You really don’t want to finish that sentence,” Sam warned.

Actually, Dean kinda did. Sam’s face went this funny pink color whenever Dean started listing particular parts of the human anatomy, and he could use some cheering up right now. On the other hand, he really wanted to come out of this convalescence with his ribs intact, thank you very much, and Sam was gesturing him forward, a thick roll of cloth bandage in his left hand. Just when Dean had thought he’d seen the last of that stuff: damned medicated cream Sam always smeared on underneath the bandages made him itch like crazy. He felt his smile slip as he glanced up at his brother’s face. He didn’t _think_ that Sam would hurt him deliberately, but he also hadn’t thought that the Red Sox would ever pull off the Series again, and look how that one had turned out. So, discretion. Better part of valor and all that.

“Shouldn’t you be wrapping me after I shower?” Dean asked, trying to postpone the inevitable. This was going to hurt, damnit.

“You aren’t showering. You can barely stand up, man. No way I’m letting you in there alone. What if you slipped and fell?”

“Gee, Grandma, I promise I’ll be real careful.”

“I mean it, Dean.” Sam was frowning, stubborn wrinkles lining his forehead. “I’ll get you a washcloth.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me! I’m not using a fucking washcloth. This stuff is caked on, dude, and I’ve got sweat in places the sun hasn’t seen in years. I’m getting in the fucking shower.”

“Okay.”

Dean blinked. Okay? Sam had caved awful easy. Still, he wasn’t looking this particular gift horse in the mouth. He tapped his hand on the bedspread, considering the distance between the bed and the bathroom.

“Fine,” he said shortly. If he moved real slow, he should be able to get in there without much of a problem. Sam reached out and pressed one hand lightly against Dean’s chest and Dean scowled up at him. “I thought we were waiting until after the shower.”

“I didn’t finish, Dean.” Sam offered him a steely smile. “You can take a shower if you can get up.”

“Move your hand and I will,” Dean growled.

“Move it yourself.”

Dean stared down at Sam’s hand, a light pressure against his sternum, not enough to make his ribs sing out anymore than they already were, and then clenched his teeth together. “Son of a bitch.”

“That’s what I thought. So, I’ll wrap your chest up first and then I’ll get the washcloth. Ask real nice, and I might even help with those hard to reach spots behind the ears.”

“I’m totally going to kick your ass when I can move again, you know.”


	5. A Date to Remember

Sam tapped one finger against the side of his glass and then made himself stop; Jessica had hated it when he did that. Not that she’d ever said anything, but she always got that line between her eyes, that deep furrow that told him, without her having to say anything, ‘Samuel Winchester, you stop doing that right this second.’ A look reserved for the tapping of his finger on his beer glasses and conversations about Jess’ snoring: freight train, avalanche, buzzsaw. A slight smile played across his lips at the memory.

“What’re you thinking about?” Missy asked, and then instantly grimaced. “Sorry. My old boyfriend always used to ask me that and I hated it—forgot what was on my mind as soon as he asked. Oh! Oh, darn it all! I wasn’t supposed to bring up my ex either.” She dropped her head down onto the table and then turned so her cheek was resting against it and she was looking up at Sam with one eye. “Did I mention I was a lousy first date?”

Sam grinned. “You’re doing great, really. I’m having a good time.”

He was, actually, which was a little surprising considering the fact that he had spent the evening dealing with a grumpy, injured brother, and had more of the same to look forward to when he went home. Add to that the fact that he somehow had to explain to Missy what they were really after in Panoquot, and Sam was thinking of nominating her to sainthood if she could pull two more miracles out of her hat.

God, Dean was going to kill him when he got back and he found out what Sam had done. But really, Sam thought that honesty was the way to go on this one. It was the only way he’d be able to get Missy to convince the Rioses to actually talk to him about whatever curse they were under.

Missy was smiling at him again, which left an interesting flutter in his stomach. She really was attractive, with the added bonus that she was one of the few girls who managed to look past Dean’s swagger and bluster and see Sam standing there. Not that he didn’t get his share of women, he supposed: it was just that Dean was so eager in his pursuits it had always seemed like he ended up with the short end of the stick. Not this time, though. Heh.

“So you were going to tell me how you ended up with the F.B.I.”

Of course, she was going to kill him when he told her that he’d lied to her. Again.

He fidgeted, picking up his glass running his thumbs across it. “Oh, uh…Family tradition. Our—my dad did it, brought me up the same way.”

“Our? You have another relative in the Bureau? Brother? Sister?”

“Brother. It, uh…Look, it’s Dean. He’s my brother.”

She leaned back, frowning. “I didn’t know that they let siblings partner together. I would have thought that was bad policy.”

“Well, uh…” God, why couldn’t he have lied about Dean? Dean lied about him often enough, for crying out loud. He sighed, put his beer back down on the table. “Look, can we get out of here? Go somewhere more private?”

“You mean like your hotel room.” Missy’s voice was flat. Before he could answer she was standing up, mouth pressed in a thin line. “You lied to me. Again. I can’t believe it!” She grabbed her coat and started putting it on. “I can’t believe I fell for that line. I mean, come on, F.B.I.?” She let out a little laugh and turned to go.

Sam hurried to stand and managed to knock the table over. Beer went everywhere, some of it onto his jeans, and a glass shattered. Heads swiveled, watching, and a wise ass at the bar started clapping. Sam ignored them, used his reach to catch Missy’s hand.

“Missy, wait!”

She yanked her arm free and rounded on him. “Don’t you dare touch me, Sam. If that’s really your name. You know, I thought you were a nice guy. I thought you were…oh, forget it.”

“Missy—”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it. I don—”

“Just give me a chance to explain. I promise I…” He fumbled around in his pocket for his wallet, pulled it out and shoved a twenty at her. “Here, twenty dollars.” And as her face went from pissed to nuclear, he added, “Just to listen. To let me try and explain.”

Her jaw worked and for a moment he thought that she was going to leave anyway, throw the money at him and run out, taking their shot at getting the Rioses to talk to them with her. Then she shoved the bill in her coat pocket and folded her arms. “Okay, talk.”

“Not here, I…” Sam glanced around at the other patrons, none of whom were even pretending to be otherwise engaged. It wasn’t every night they got a show like this, after all. “Can we please go somewhere more private—anywhere, your choice.”

She looked like she wanted to refuse him, but then she jerked her head toward the door. “Parking lot. You’ve got five minutes.”

“It might take a little longer than that.”

“Five minutes, _Agent Burrell_. Then I’m gone.”

Okay, so he had to talk fast. Sam trailed after her to the parking lot outside, which was flooded with harsh, exterior spots. The locals would probably be plastered to the bar’s windows, watching, but they wouldn’t be able to hear anything if Sam was careful, and that was the important part. Missy went straight over to the Impala and hoisted herself up onto the trunk— _thank God Dean’s not here_ —to wait. Regarded him steadily.

“Okay, uh, so…you’re right, I lied to you.” Missy’s eyes narrowed and Sam hastened to continue, “But I didn’t do it to get you in bed.”

“What, then? Is this some sick pastime of yours? Isabel was my _friend_ and now she’s _dead_. You can’t just… I oughta report you to the sheriff.”

“Look, we aren’t agents, but we _are_ researching her death, okay? And no, we aren’t reporters. Dean and I, we…” God, there wasn’t any way he could say this and make it sound credible. “We think that something killed Isabel, the others too.”

“Some _thing_.”

“A, uh, chupacabra. We…that’s what we do. We hunt things, monsters. Things that hurt people.”

“Okay then. Goodbye, Sam.” She moved to push herself off the hood and he stepped forward, blocking her escape.

“You gave me five minutes, it’s only been two.”

“I gave you five minutes when I thought you were sane. Now move. Or do I have to signal Joe over there and have him move you?”

Sam turned his head and saw that one of the locals had emerged from the bar and was standing by the door, watching them and cracking his knuckles in an obvious manner. He turned quickly back to Missy. “Look, I know it sounds nuts, but it’s the truth. For real, this time. Look, I…I can prove it to you. I have some stuff, back at the motel. I can…”

A hand fell on his shoulder. “Hey, buddy. I think that the lady wants you to leave her alone.”

“It’s okay, Joe. Sam was just leaving, weren’t you, Sam?”

“I…” Sam swallowed. He could take the guy behind him, could put him down in seconds, but that wasn’t going to convince Missy. He’d lost her. “Yeah, I—”

His phone rang. He shrugged Joe off and grabbed for it, glancing down to check the number. Dean. Who knew where he was and wouldn’t be calling unless…unless something had happened. Joe’s hand dropped on his shoulder again and he rolled his shoulder out from under it. Flipped the phone open and brought it up to his ear.

“Dean?”

“Sammy. Uh, I may be in a little bit of trouble here.”

“What’s wrong, Dean?”

“There’s something at the door, and it seems pretty eager to get in here.”

Oh shit. “How long?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I’ve got the gun, but… Sam, I blew half its head off and it’s still coming. I don’t think bullets are going to do it.”

“Okay, I’m coming. Just…get into the bathroom and lock the door.”

“That way if it gets in the room, it still has another door to go through. Good thinking, Sam.”

“Just…Just stay alive.” He snapped the phone shut and turned, moving for the driver’s side door, and ran into Joe.

“You leaving yet?” the brawny man drawled.

“Yeah, I’m leaving. Now get the hell out of my way.” Sam pushed him backwards, putting all of his strength behind the shove, and Joe stumbled, surprise on his face. Despite his height, people always seemed to assume that Sam was something of a pushover. Generally speaking, he preferred they think that, but in this case he didn’t have time to mess around. Dean was in danger, heavily medicated, and barely able to move. He had to get back there, _now_.

He was yanking the door open when someone pulled at his arm. He turned to put Joe down with a left hook, and then forced himself to stand down when he saw that it was Missy.

“What was that?” she demanded.

“I don’t have time for this,” Sam said. Wrapped his hands around her upper arms and moved her away from the car.

“But what—”

“Go home, Missy.” He folded himself into the Impala and revved up the engine. Saw Missy hurry over to Joe as he pulled out of the parking lot, spraying gravel behind him. The motel was ten minutes away, at least. And he was going to have to pull over somewhere on the way, get something out of the trunk so that he’d be armed when he pulled into the parking lot. Shotgun was probably going to be his best bet. Because Dean hadn’t killed the chupacabra with that shot to the head, but he’d hurt it—sent it packing. And right now, getting rid of the thing was all Sam was concerned with.

Okay, far enough from the bar to be out of sight, if not out of mind. It was going to take some fast talking to smooth this one over, if Missy said anything to the other locals. On second thought, if Missy talked to anyone—told them what “Agents Ralphs and Burrell” were really up to, and who, exactly, they weren’t—then he and Dean were going to need to burn rubber and fast. Contact Ellen and have her send someone else up here to take care of this.

Sam grimaced as he pulled over. Got out and hurried around to the trunk. Dean would kill him if they had to leave and someone else got to bag the chupacabra. Or at least make his life very, very miserable. Dean was good at that: he’d had twenty-five years of practice, after all.

The sound of a distant engine coming up the road from the bar reached Sam as he climbed back into the Impala, tossing the shotgun and a box of shells in ahead of him. He gunned the engine and peeled down the road, taking the turns faster than was strictly safe. It was probably nothing, but if that was Joe behind him, or some other concerned citizen, then he didn’t have time to deal with them. Not when Dean was under siege in their motel room.

He kept his eyes on the road while he drove, mostly out of necessity: if he hit something going this fast, they’d be scraping bits of him out of the dash for months. But he really, really didn’t want to look at the clock. Didn’t want to watch time slipping past. His mind was already painting a clear enough picture of that thing ripping through the motel room, tearing into his brother.

His imagination had been half-right, Sam saw as he skidded to a stop in the motel parking lot. He saw the chupacabra instantly, or at least the rear half of it. Haunches like a mastiff, if they grew mastiffs the size of small bears, protruded from the door to their room. The rest of the thing was already inside, and as Sam hauled himself out of the car, it shoved itself further through the hole it had made.

Then the shotgun was in his hands. He leaned over the hood of the Impala, aiming, and shouted, “Hey! Over here, you ugly son of a bitch!”

The chupacabra ignored him, scrambling eagerly at the door.

Sam sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger. The chupacabra’s hindquarters jerked with the sound of the shot and a red spray peppered its hip. It howled, backing up and taking half the door with it. A ruined face turned on Sam. One red eye winked in the fluorescent light; half of a jaw parted in a leering grin. Red foam flecked its mouth, slobber that dripped on the pavement as it stood there, shivering in anger, trying to locate its tormenter.

Sam took a step away from the Impala and the movement brought the chupacabra’s eye to him. Its muscles bunched and it growled, muzzle wrinkling. Shark-like teeth glimmered at him as it shifted its weight from side to side like a cat readying itself to pounce. He pulled the trigger again and blood ran down the matted fur on its chest.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice, filtering out through the gaping hole in their door. The chupacabra’s ears swiveled back at the sound.

“Get back in the bathroom, Dean! It’s still out here.” He snapped the shotgun open and fumbled for two more shells, keeping a wary eye on the chupacabra as it turned in a confused circle to sniff at the ruined door. Big, then, and mean, but stupid. Thank God for small favors.

“I’m gonna lead it away, try and get it back in the woods!” He wasn’t sure Dean could hear him. Started inching toward the edge of the parking lot as the chupacabra focused on him again.

“Are you nuts? It’s too fast: take you down in a second!”

The chupacabra had turned around again, was pacing toward their room. Damnit, why didn’t Dean ever listen to him?

“Bathroom, now!” It spun back, stalked toward him.

“I’m fine! Just don’t do anything stupid!”

“What, you mean like go out hunting a chupacabra when I don’t know the first thing about it?”

“We’re still alive, aren’t we?”

“Can we _please_ have this conversation later, Dean?”

“You started it!” The sound of Dean’s gun echoed through the woods and the chupacabra pulled its head back from the door, fresh blood dribbling from its mouth.

This was ridiculous. They could keep this up all night and, at this rate, by morning they’d be out of ammo and the chupacabra would be just as pissed off and kicking. Sam had to get it out of there now. He glanced at the woods and adjusted his grip on the shotgun. He was just going to have to hope that chupacabras couldn’t climb trees.

“Hey, goat-sucker!” He used one of his shots to regain its attention. “That’s right, beautiful. Come and get it.”

The chupacabra slunk toward him, belly low to the ground. He could hear it growling, thought he could feel the sound rumbling through the ground. He took a step toward the woods and then hesitated as the chupacabra dropped even lower, muscles bunched and twitching. _One shot. I’ve got one shot at this. Oh, please God let this work._

He squeezed off his final round and then, dropping the gun, sprinted for the woods. He could hear it pounding after him, coming faster than he’d thought possible. There was no way he was going to make it to the trees, let alone get himself up in one. Its growl surrounded him, too loud, too close. Shit. _Shit._

He felt something brush against his ankle and then there was a new noise, someone pressing down hard on their horn, and he twisted his head back in time to see a Ford pickup flash past him, close enough that he could have reached out and touched it. Then there was a loud crunch, and a high-pitched yelp of pain. Sam staggered to a halt, turning more fully.

 _Holy shit, they hit it._

The pickup’s front had been destroyed by the impact, bent up in the middle like tinfoil. Steam poured out from the engine. The chupacabra was lying fifteen feet away, crumpled on its side like an oversized bear rug. As he watched, it lifted its head. Blinked at the truck.

“Oh, just die already!” Sam yelled at it.

But it was climbing to its feet, swaying unsteadily. Sam could hear whoever was in the truck trying to start it back up, probably for another ram, but the truck was finished. The engine managed to turn over once and then died, emitting a depressing death rattle. The chupacabra stood there, sides heaving, staring at the truck.

“What the hell is going on?” Dean called.

“Stay in there, Dean!”

The chupacabra swung its head around to look at Sam, took a few, hesitant steps in his direction, and then stopped. Shook itself twice. Then took a slow, wandering path back into the forest.

Sam stared after it incredulously. That was… That had been… He thought that maybe they’d just used up their luck for a few years to come. Also, maybe they needed some bigger guns.

“Sam! Are you okay?”

What the…? Sam forced his eyes away from the place the chupacabra had disappeared and gaped at Missy as she climbed down from the truck. “Missy? What are you—”

“That was… That thing, was that...?” She walked toward him unsteadily.

“Yeah.” And then, as he remembered, “Dean.” He ran for their room, crouched to climb in through the hole that the chupacabra had left. “Dean! You okay?”

“Dandy.” Dean was hanging on the bathroom doorjamb, face pale. Sam wrapped a careful arm around his brother’s shoulders and helped him over to the bed. “I think I may have sprained something,” Dean confessed as Sam lowered him down.

“You think?” Sam eyed his brother critically. At least the wrapping looked like it had held. So he hadn’t done any more damage to his ribs. Hopefully.

“Was that a car I heard?” Dean asked, glancing at the door. “Better not have hurt my baby, Sam, or I swear to God…”

“Oh shit, Missy.”

“You brought your _date_? Way to go, Casanova.”

“I didn’t bring her, she followed me here. Just…just sit here for a minute, okay? And don’t move.”

“Not a problem, Sam,” Dean said, easing himself back onto the bed so that he was lying down, both feet still on the floor. “Trust me.”

Missy was standing in front of the truck when Sam ducked back out through the door. She was staring at the mashed in hood as he came up next to her: didn’t so much as glance at him.

“Hey, Missy?” he said, keeping his voice soft so that he wouldn’t startle her.

“I broke the truck,” she mumbled.

“Are you okay?”

She swallowed and then nodded. “Joe’s going to kill me.”

“Missy?” He reached out and touched her arm.

Now she did look at him, eyes wide. “It’s his truck. I borrowed it.”

Okay, she was definitely in shock. Didn’t look injured, though.

“What am I going to tell him? He loves that truck!”

“Come on inside and sit down, okay?” He took her more firmly by the arm and led her over to the ruined door. Looked down at it, considering, and then shouldered it open rather than trying to get Missy to duck through. The state she was in, she’d probably trip and impale herself on one of the splintered chunks of wood.

Dean had gotten his feet up on the bed and was lying there with his hands behind his head, gun on the bedspread beside him. Missy stared at the gun, then let her eyes slide up to Dean’s face. Dean glanced up at Sam, eyebrows raised in question.

“I broke the truck,” Missy said.

“She’s in shock,” Sam explained.

“I can see that, Sam.” Dean dropped his arms and forced himself to sit up, the only sign of pain a slight tightening around the corners of his mouth. “Why don’t you sit her down. Get her some water.”

“Right. Good idea.”

Sam lowered her onto his bed and she let him, sitting docilely. She seemed fascinated by Dean’s gun. As Sam released her, Missy’s eyes drifted up to him, and she announced, calmly, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

He had just enough time to grab the small trashcan and position it in front of her before she leaned forward and the last few rounds of Harper’s came charging up. Sam heard Dean get off the bed behind him and limp into the bathroom. He considered telling his brother to stay put and then let it go: Dean was a big boy, he could push himself into a collapse if he wanted. When Missy had finished, he lowered the trashcan and reached up to rub her back lightly, the way his father always had when he was sick.

Dean appeared at his side, a glass of water in one hand and a damp facecloth in the other. Sam took the offered items from his brother with a quick smile. “Thanks. Now go sit down and stay still.”

“I’m fine, Sam.” But he did pull a chair over, lowering himself into it carefully.

Sam brushed the wet cloth across Missy’s forehead and then pressed the glass of water into her hand. “Here, drink this.” She raised her head a little, focusing on him, and he smiled at her reassuringly. “It’s water.”

“What, you don’t have anything stronger?”

Dean barked a laugh and then winced, pressing one hand against his lower chest. “That’s my kind of girl, Sammy.” He started to haul himself up again. “I think I have some whiskey in my bag.”

Sam jumped to his feet and pushed Dean back into the chair. “Sit. I’ll get it.” Dean made a face but didn’t argue, which told Sam a little about the pain his brother was in.

Missy seemed a little calmer when he came back to her with the bottle of Jack Daniels. She’d finished off the water and now held the empty glass out to him. He poured some of the whiskey into it and then waited while she tossed it back.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I’ve been better,” Missy admitted. She adjusted her grip on the glass, holding it firmly in both hands, and then took a shuddering breath. “Was that…that thing outside, was it…?”

“A chupacabra? Yeah.”

“So all that stuff you told me…It was true?”

Dean’s head whipped over to Sam and his eyes narrowed. He was so going to hear about this later. For now, Sam ignored the look and nodded. “Yeah, it’s true.”

“This is…God, what am I going to tell Joe? That I totaled his truck by driving it into a _chupacabra_?”

“You did? Really?” Dean grinned abruptly. “Nice. Is it dead?”

Sam shook his head. “No. It ran off into the woods.”

“What the hell is that thing built out of, adamantium?”

“Well, it didn’t run exactly. More sort of stumbled.”

“Great. So, we throw a few more trucks at it. How the hell are we supposed to kill this thing, Sam?”

“Hey!”

Sam and Dean turned as one to look at Missy.

“I hate to interrupt here, but can someone please just…just take a second and explain— _in detail_ —what the hell is going on here?”


	6. Coming Clean

“Hey, Ama. Can we come in?”

Amada Rios, a short, thick woman who had nevertheless managed a graceful transition into middle age, frowned past Missy at Sam, who was hanging back on the lower step. “I already talked to you,” she said shortly.

Sam glanced at Missy and shifted uncomfortably. He wished that Dean were here. Dean always seemed to be able to smooth things over with the locals—especially those of the feminine variety. And this woman had been particularly difficult to deal with; questioning her had been a little like trying to hug a porcupine.

“Please, Ama,” Missy said, drawing Amada’s eyes back to her. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, you know I wouldn’t.”

Amada heaved a sigh and stepped back from the doorway. “Come on in, then, if you have to. Long as you’re here, you might as well have some coffee. Also, I just made a blueberry pie, if you want a slice.”

“That’d be great, Ama.”

Sam kept his mouth shut and followed. Last time he was here, he hadn’t been offered anything except an escort to the door. When Amada led them through the living room into the kitchen, with its blue tiles and marble counters, he kept close to Missy, trying to be as unobtrusive as he could. Barked his shin against the corner of the island and swallowed a curse.

Amada’s dark eyes were sharp on him as she arranged three mugs on the table. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Agent,” she told him.

Sam folded himself into a chair and forced himself to sit still, hands resting on the table. Missy pulled up a seat next to him and slid one of her hands over his. Gave a gentle squeeze of reassurance as she leaned over and whispered, “Don’t worry, her bark is worse than her bite.”

“I heard that,” Amada said, slicing into the pie with a sharp motion.

Missy’s lips curved into a smile. “Ama babysat for me when Ronnie was busy,” she announced, leaning back. “She always threatened to sell me to gypsies.”

Amada grunted as she shoved two generous pieces of pie at them, then pointed to her hair. “You see this? Every white hair I’ve got, she gave me.”

Sam grinned tentatively at her, not sure whether she was joking or not. He wished again that Dean was there instead of him. Dean could be…well, awkward sometimes with the grieving relatives of victims, but he was damned good at getting people to open up and talk to him. He would throw one of his cocky smiles at Amada and make some flattering remark and she’d laugh. But no, he was back at the motel, lazing around and watching cable.

“Is Enrique here?” Missy asked.

Amada shook her head as she snapped the coffee pot on and returned to sit down across from them. “He’s out with the herd. Some wolves giving them trouble. Probably rabid, way that’s been going around lately.”

“Herd?” Sam said.

“We keep goats. There’s a dairy over in Caratunk, makes cheese out of the milk. It’s a good side business.”

Which was as good of a lead as he was going to get, Sam supposed, so he gamely plunged ahead, saying, “Ms. Rios, I need to ask you some more questions. About your farm.” Among other things.

“Figured that’s why you came back here. Go on, boy. You can eat the pie; I haven’t poisoned it.” Her eyes slid to Missy as Sam tentatively picked up his fork. “Though why you’re with him, Missy, honestly I can’t figure.”

Missy glanced over at him, grinning mischievously, and said, “Well, he’s great in bed.”

Sam choked on the piece of pie he’d just put in his mouth. He tried glaring at Missy, but wasn’t sure it was all that intimidating, what with the coughing and the watering eyes.

Missy slapped him on the back. “You okay, Sam?”

The pie slipped back a little and suddenly he could swallow. He nodded, once, and then looked back at Amada, ready to try to explain while regaining control over his air supply. But she was laughing.

As he gasped in fresh air, she waved a hand at him. “Don’t worry, Agent. I’m sure you haven’t done anything unprofessional with the problem child.” And then she honest to God grinned at him. “You see now why I wanted to sell her to the gypsies? Too bad they wouldn’t take her.”

“Oh, you love me.” Missy gave Sam her best contrite smile as she looked back at him. “Sorry about that, Sam.”

Yeah, right. He wasn’t buying that look on her any more than he ever bought it on his brother. Maybe Dean should have been the one taking Missy out. Sam sure as hell didn’t know what to do with her. Sam searched for something to say and was saved by the ding of the coffee pot’s alarm.

“Coffee’s ready.” Amada pushed herself up.

As soon as she had passed him, Sam turned toward Missy and dropped his voice. “What are you doing?”

“Breaking the ice. Don’t worry, Sam, really. And, uh, I’m sorry about the choking. I’ll make it up to you. Later.” And slipped one hand underneath the table to squeeze his knee.

Um. Okay. Later. Sam was good with later. No, he was actually pretty great with later.

And, surprisingly, he was more relaxed after that. Missy had been right: her little joke had thawed Amada’s demeanor towards him considerably. Sam let himself relax and enjoy the pie, which was really quite good. If things went well here, he thought he’d ask if he could have a piece to bring back to Dean: it had been a long time since either of them had eaten anything that resembled homemade. And the offering might make Dean slightly less pissed about the fact that he was going to have to stay in the motel while Sam went out and bagged the chupacabra.

“So,” Amada said finally, when Sam had finished coffee and pie and pushed his plate away. “You said you had some questions.”

“Actually, Sam has something to tell you first,” Missy broke in before Sam could say anything. He frowned at her, not sure what she was driving at. “About you,” she prodded. “And Dean.”

Oh. No, he certainly wasn’t going there again. “Not now, Missy,” he told her, firmly. Then glanced at Amada, who was eyeing him suspiciously. Shit, now he had to tell her _something_. “It’s just that my partner and I are running this investigation below the radar, so to speak, on orders from the—”

“He’s not with the F.B.I., Ama,” Missy said. Sam glared at her but she ignored him. “He and his brother hunt monsters, like ghosts and stuff. They think that a chupacabra killed Ronnie and the others.”

Amada stood up so quickly that her chair tipped and fell over backwards. “Get out.”

Sam hastened to rise himself. “Ama—Amada—Ms. Rios, please, I need to ask—”

“I’ve seen it, Ama.” Missy’s voice was quiet, but Amada’s eyes snapped back down to her as though she’d shouted it. Missy nodded. “Last night. It—it ate a hole in one of Bill’s doors.”

Amada’s face went white and she staggered. Sam dodged around the table and caught her before she fainted, then helped her into a chair before righting the one she’d knocked over and sitting in it himself. “Ms. Rios? Are you okay? Should we call someone?”

She shook her head. “No. No, I’m fine. It’s just…” Her eyes found his, and the desperation he saw there made his chest clench. “I was sure that it wasn’t responsible. I was so _sure_.” Tears were forming in her eyes and Sam snagged one of the napkins from the holder and handed it to her.

“I know this is hard, Ms. Rios, but I need you to answer some questions, if we’re going to stop these killings.”

“Call me Ama, Sam.” She smiled weakly. “I should have told you when you came before, but…”

“That’s okay,” he reassured her. “It isn’t exactly something you’d normally tell government officials.”

“I would have tried anyway, except… I honestly didn’t believe it was responsible. It’s been here so long, I thought that if _el chupacabra_ had killed those people, there would have been deaths before now.”

“It’s the curse, isn’t it?” Missy asked. “The chupacabra’s a part of it.”

“Where did you hear about that?” Amada demanded.

“Isabel told me.”

“That girl spent too much time listening at keyholes.” But she smiled, softly. “Yes, the curse. That’s the place to start, anyway.” She turned toward Sam, fixed him with a steady gaze. “I told you last time that my parents and grandparents came here to escape persecution by the local mayor. That was partly true, at any rate.”

“The man was a _brujo_. A witch. Or so my grandfather told me. He wanted my grandfather to sell him our land. My grandfather, of course, refused, so the _brujo_ cursed us. He set the chupacabra on our herds, until we could get no peace, and our livelihood was failing.”

“When it was clear that there was nothing else to do, my grandfather sold the _brujo_ our land. But when he asked the _brujo_ to remove the curse, the _brujo_ only laughed at him. He said that it was impossible to remove it, and then he threw my grandfather out of his _hacienda_.”

“They sent men to evict my family, but my grandfather was already ready for them. He’d gone straight home and told my grandma to pack up the household. Then he sent word around that they were leaving, going north. Some of the other families that the _brujo_ was pressuring wanted to come with him, and my grandfather agreed. He thought that, perhaps, if moving didn’t rid us of the chupacabra, then maybe it would lose sight of us amongst so many of our people—that it would be confused and leave us alone, go back to Mexico.”

“But it didn’t work, did it,” Sam prodded.

Amada shook her head. “For a short time, he thought it had. But…I was six when it found us again, when the attacks began. Not people, just the goats. It didn’t take many, not like it had in Mexico, only one or two a month. Since we could afford that loss, what with the potato fields, and the blueberries, and since it was obvious we couldn’t outrun it, my grandfather decided to stay.”

Sam had been busy doing the math in his head, and now he asked, “How many goats do you have?” Because one or two a month meant something between twelve and twenty-four goats a year. He was no kind of farmer, but that seemed like a fairly high annual loss to him. Especially when you added in all the natural deaths that were bound to occur.

“We keep a herd of about sixty.” She nodded at his expression of confusion. “You’re right, of course. If things had gone on like that, we would have been out of goats long ago. But after a few years, the attacks dropped off. And they’ve been steadily dropping ever since. We lose two, three a year now, and make that number up and more in kids.”

“Do you have any idea why it stopped attacking so often?”

“I can’t know for sure, of course, but I’ve always thought that it found another food source up here that it liked more than goats.”

“Deer,” Sam said with dawning realization. “You think it’s been feeding on the deer.”

Amada spread her hands. “They can’t be all that different from goats. And there’s a surplus of them in these parts. Or there was, anyway.” She sighed unhappily. “Maybe that’s why these attacks started. Maybe it’s eaten its way through the population.”

Sam shook his head, frowning. “No, Dean and I were in the woods yesterday and I saw plenty of deer sign.” The track they’d followed had probably been left by deer, in fact.

“Then I don’t know what’s happened. We certainly haven’t done anything to anger it. We’ve been living peacefully with it for years. It’s become a kind of family tradition.”

“Is there anything that you can tell me about it that might help us catch it?”

“Let’s see. Well, it’s nocturnal, but you probably already knew that. Legend says that it’s incredibly fast, and has an abnormally keen sense of smell.”

That was probably how it had shown up at the motel. The chupacabra must have gotten a mouthful of Dean’s scent when it attacked him and then followed its nose. Followed them through the forest and then followed the Impala’s exhaust fumes back to their room. Damn. If chupacabras could be trained, domesticated, they’d make great hunting dogs. Which was probably the worst idea he’d had all year.

“Anything else? Any way we can find it? Are there types of places they typically nest?”

Amada shook her head. “Not that I know of. Although…” Her eyes brightened. “I may have an idea, if you want to try it. My grandfather told me that the sound of a bleating goat drives the chupacabra into a blood frenzy. If we gave you one of our goats, you might be able to set a trap. Get it to come to you.”

Of course, that was assuming that it was still hungry for goats after getting a taste of human blood. But it was a possibility, and really, Sam didn’t have any better ideas. What was the worst that could happen?

His lips spread in a wide grin. “That sounds like a great idea.”

Amada patted his knee and got to her feet. “Well then, let’s get out to the field and get you your goat.”


	7. Going Hunting

Bill Anderson, owner and manager of Bill’s Hideaway Lodge, cornered Sam as soon as he climbed out of the Impala. Sam sighed, glancing back at the car and its remaining passenger, and then said, slowly, “I can explain.” Probably. Well, he could try.

Bill shook his head. “You don’t have to. Ama called. Told me what really happened to that door.” He glanced at the taped off door to Sam and Dean’s old room, which they’d traded for another with an intact entrance. “I reckon you don’t need to pay for it.”

“I, uh…Thanks. That’s really great of you, Mr. Anderson. About the…”

“It don’t matter none. You just put a stop to this, you hear?”

“Yes, sir. We will.”

“Good then.” And he meandered away, hands stuffed deep into his back pockets.

Sam watched him go, mentally thanking Amada: Dean had been livid that Bill was going to make them pay for the mess the chupacabra had made. Then he quickly unloaded the car and headed for their room before anyone else could spot him.

Dean glanced up when Sam opened the door, then dropped his eyes back to the bottles he was fiddling with at the table. And then jerked his head back up and stared. “What is _that_?” he demanded.

“What does it look like, Dean?” Sam asked wearily, pulling on the lead.

“It looks like a goat.”

The goat trotted a few steps forward and then bleated at Dean. Sam shoved it further into the room, narrowly avoiding an ill-tempered nip at his hand, and then slammed the door shut. Leaned against it, glaring at the goat. Foul thing had bitten him twice on the way back.

“How’d it get here, Sam?” Dean bared his teeth at Sam in what was probably supposed to be a smile.

“Umm…”

“Sam.” His voice had gone low and dangerous. “Please tell me that someone else dropped that off here.”

“Okay, someone dropped it off.”

“You put a goat in my baby? A _goat_?” Dean’s face had gone an interesting shade of red.

“It didn’t scuff the leather or anything.”

“You’re dead, Sam. Seriously. Give me my gun. I’m going to shoot you right now.”

“Oh, _there’s_ some incentive to give you a weapon.”

The goat, having decided it was hungry, stretched its neck forward to nip at one of the shirts lying half-in and half-out of Dean’s bag. Dean swore and pegged an empty water bottle at it. The goat danced away and then edged back to chew on the plastic bottle.

“Okay,” Dean amended. “The goat’s getting it first. Then it’s your turn.”

“Dude, I’ll clean the car out, okay? I’ll have it detailed, or whatever. But we need the goat.”

“What for? Food at Carnitas isn’t that bad.”

“We’re not going to eat it, dude. It’s bait.”

“Bait.”

“For the chupacabra.”

“You want it to come back here again? Because last night was fun, but I’m not all that anxious for an encore performance.”

“No, dumbass, in the woods.”

Dean stared at him flatly. “You mean you want to put that thing back in my car.”

“Amada Rios told me that the sound of a bleating goat attracts chupacabras. You got a better idea, I’m all ears.”

“How about anything that doesn’t involve turning my car into a moving barn?”

“Dean…”

“Okay, okay. Fine. Whatever.” Dean scowled at the goat, which had given up on the bottle and was now chomping on the bedspread. “You’re toast, pal. I’m so letting the chupacabra snack on your ass before I waste it.”

Sam shook his head. “You’re not wasting anything, Dean. You’re staying here.”

“Like hell I am.”

“You can hardly move,” Sam pointed out.

“I don’t have to move. I’ll be up in a tree with these.” He hefted one of the bottles in front of him, filled to the top with an amber liquid.

Sam frowned. “Is that…”

“Yup. Molotovs.”

“Where the hell did you get the gasoline?”

“Sandy brought it.”

“ _Sandy_?”

“You know, the maid? Short, petite, red hair, legs that go up to—”

“I _know_ who Sandy is, but…” Sam stopped himself, raising one hand. “You know what? Just…just forget it. I don’t want to know.”

“Hey,” Dean protested. “I’m injured here. I didn’t do anything.” Sam stared at him until Dean cleared his throat and grinned a little. “Okay, maybe I…”

“Stop. Right. There.” Sam reached up and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Can we just get back to the part where you’re making Molotovs in our motel room?”

“I know. Brilliant, right?” His grin widened. “Let’s see that bastard keep coming after we pull a Jaws on him.”

“You’re kidding.”

Dean jostled the bottle a little. “What? It’s a great idea.”

“You want to blow it up.”

“Hey, if the solution fits.” Dean was grinning in a disturbing manner.

“You just want to watch it explode,” Sam accused.

“It will be pretty awesome, won’t it?” He put the bottle back down on the table and leaned back in the chair a little. “You got a better idea?” he asked, parroting Sam’s earlier words at him.

Sam grunted. No, not really. He didn’t. Because they’d put who knew how many bullets in it, Dean had blown half its face off, and Missy had run it over with a truck, and it just kept going, like some overgrown Energizer Bunny. Explosives were quite possibly the only way to go. So fine, Dean’s plan was in. But Dean wasn’t.

“You’re still not coming.”

“Dude, don’t be an ass. Who’s going to get Fido to swallow the bone—” He nudged the bottle with one hand.

“—if I’m stuck here?”

“I can throw just as well as you can, Dean.”

“Okay, then. Who’s going to shoot it?”

“What?”

“Once it’s got the bottle in its mouth, who’s going to shoot it with one of these?” He held up a bullet—one of their precious explosive rounds.

“I also know how to use a gun.”

“Can’t do both, Sammy. We both know it’ll spit the bottle right back out as soon as it realizes it isn’t edible. You won’t have time to both throw and shoot.” He grinned, cocky. “You need me.”

Sam pressed his mouth into a thin line and counted to ten, then backwards down to one. When he thought he could talk to his brother without shouting at him, he said, tightly, “And how are you going to get up into a tree? You can barely walk.”

Dean’s grin broadened, which Sam hadn’t thought would be possible. “Oh, I don’t know, Sandy—”

“ _Don’t_ finish that sentence.”

Dean chuckled and leaned back in his chair a little. “Besides, that’s what little brothers are for, Sammy.” The goat bleated and Dean nodded. “See? Billy agrees with me.”

“You’re not coming, Dean.”

Dean whistled and went back to pouring gasoline and sugar into the bottles.

“Dean? Do you hear me? I mean it, dude, you’re staying here. Dean? Dean!”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Hey, Sammy! Any sign of it yet?”

“For the hundredth time, shut up, man.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“That’s because it’s the middle of the night and it’s dark as hell out here.” Sam could only faintly make out the shape of the goat, tethered to a tree with a piece of rope. He was down on the ground with it, under the rationale that he’d be able to get a better shot at the bottle from a lower angle—if he could see it at all, of course. His shoulders and biceps ached from shoving Dean up into the tree, and he was beginning to suspect that the bush he’d concealed himself in was poison sumac. Damnit.

“Hey, Sam?”

Sam let his forehead drop down onto his arms for a moment before calling back, “This is supposed to be a trap, Dean. Which means that the chupacabra isn’t supposed to know we’re here. Which means you have to shut the hell up!”

“You’re the one who’s yelling.” Muttered, but Sam could hear Dean clearly enough. He was beginning to consider leaving Dean up there once the chupacabra was dead.

Minutes dragged past in silence, and Sam was just beginning to relax again when he heard it. Humming. From above him. For crying out loud…

“Dude, are you _high_? Is that it?”

“I only took the one Vicodin, Sam,” Dean answered dryly.

“Are you sure, because the last time you were this annoying, you’d—”

“I’m not high, man. I’m bored.” Dean’s sigh drifted down to him. “Hey, poke the goat, will you?”

“I’m not poking the goat.”

“But it’s not doing anything. I thought you said it was supposed to be making some noise for this to work.”

Shit. Dean was right. Sam gritted his teeth and rooted around on the ground in front of him until he found a stick. Gauged the distance and tossed it. Saw the shadows shift as the goat sidestepped it. Damnit. He found a larger stick and tried again. This time he heard it connect and the goat let out a loud, annoyed bleat. Bingo.

“Bullseye. Hey, nice throw, man.”

“Thanks. Now shut up.”

“Geez, offer a guy a compliment and…”

“Dean.” Sam tightened his grip on the gun. “Can you see the goat?”

Dean was silent for a moment and then Sam heard his brother say, grimly, “No.”

This was so not good. Sam squinted, trying to tell if the goat had just lain down or if it was actually gone. Taken. Eaten. His mouth was suddenly dry. He had to see. Had to get over there and find out where they stood. Because if the goat was gone…

“I’m checking it out,” he called up to his brother in a sharp whisper.

Dean didn’t answer, but Sam had no doubt that he was perched in the tree with one arm cocked back, ready to toss one of his Molotov cocktails. Keeping the gun ready—the explosive rounds would give him a few extra moments if the chupacabra jumped him—he pushed his way out of the bushes and stalked toward the place he had left the goat. He could see that it was gone before he reached the tree, and stopped to cast his eyes around the woods, trying to pierce the shadows.

Why had they decided to do this at night? Sure, chupacabras were supposed to be nocturnal, and this one had certainly made all of its kills after dark, but hadn’t they flushed it out in daylight? Only a few hours before the sun set, sure, but even the dim illumination of dusk would have been helpful here.

His heartbeat echoed in his ears as he hesitated, halfway to the place he’d tethered the goat. The gun was slippery in his hands and he realized he was sweating, despite the chill in the air. Maybe he should join Dean up in the tree. They could wait until morning, then head back to the motel. Try this another night, or—even better—come up with a plan that didn’t involve leaving him exposed down here on the ground and was something watching him? There was an itch between his shoulder blades that told him something was, but that could have been just his imagination acting up.

Then he heard it. Something rustling in the underbrush. He swung the gun in that direction, eyes wide, and the shadows were moving. No, a shadow was moving, was coming toward him. Oh shit. His finger twitched and he squeezed off a shot, wild, knew it was going wide as soon as the gun fired. There was the muffled sound of the round exploding as it buried itself in a tree on the far side of the shadow and then the shadow was coming, _fast_ , was moving right for him.

He turned and sprinted for the nearest tree. Dropped his gun and reached up to grab onto a low hanging branch. He pulled himself up, expecting to be yanked painfully back down at any moment, and hooked one leg around the branch and swung himself onto it. Searching for a higher perch, he shouted, “Dean! Shoot it! Just shoot it!”

Because he wasn’t the only one out here with explosive rounds in his gun. John had always lectured them about having back-ups in case of emergency, and that was one lesson of his father’s that Sam had always fervently believed in.

Something scrambled against the base of the tree as he climbed higher, breath coming in harsh, painful gasps. “Dean, shoot it!” he called again, looking for the next branch, and then he heard it.

Laughter. Coming from Dean’s general direction.

What the fuck?

He made himself stop moving upward. Glanced down toward his feet, toward the base of the tree.

The goat was glaring balefully up at him.

His mouth fell open a little as he stared at it, uncomprehending, and then it bleated once and pushed itself up on its hind legs. Stretched its neck up toward him and bared its teeth. Part of the rope trailed from its neck, frayed at the end where it had chewed itself free.

Words began to make themselves distinguishable amid the laughter from the other tree.

“…a goat…oh shit…Sammy…fearless hunter…slayer of…of goats…”

Sam’s face burned hot in the darkness and he pressed his forehead against the tree’s trunk. He was never going to live this one down.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Watch out for goats, Sam. They’re dangerous.”

“Shut up, Dean.” Oh, please, _please_ shut up.

Dean snickered. “Hey, dude, did you hear the one about the…”

“Hunter who was treed by a goat? Yeah, only about a hundred times. And it wasn’t funny the first time.”

“No, you’re right. It wasn’t funny.” Dean actually sounded serious and Sam glanced at him. Dean _looked_ serious too, mouth set in a flat line and eyes intent. “It’s actually fucking hilarious.” And he burst out laughing. Again.

Sam rolled his eyes and turned away, walking a little faster to pull away from his brother. Wasn’t hard, the pace at which Dean’s injury forced him to move.

It was the next day, midmorning, and Dean was still talking about it. Hadn’t stopped talking about it all night. Which had been excruciating. And uneventful. The chupacabra had never showed.

They’d left the goat tethered to the tree while they did a little recon: Dean’s idea. Sam had knotted the ends of the rope back together and then rubbed some leaves over the whole mess that even the goat seemed to find too foul to touch. If something came along and ate it while they were gone, then that would be just too bad.

Dean probably shouldn’t have been walking around out here with his injury, especially after he spent the night in a tree, but he’d insisted that he was fine. Popped another painkiller and then grinned at Sam and announced that if ‘the brave goat hunter’ wanted him to go back to the motel, he was going to have to carry him there. Maybe he should have left Dean tethered back there with the goat.

A piece of his brother’s taunting pierced through his annoyance and he spun around, catching Dean off-guard, grimacing slightly and holding a hand against his chest. He dropped the hand as soon as he realized Sam was looking at him. _‘Not in pain’ my ass,_ Sam thought, and was tempted to let the remark go, but…No, better to head this off at the pass.

“You are _not_ telling her, Dean.”

“What? She’ll think it’s cute. Girls dig cute.”

“Dean…”

“Okay, okay. Jeez. You’re real grumpy in the morning, you know that, dude?” He glanced around. “We almost at the spot it ambushed us last time?”

“I think so. I recognize that tree.” He pointed at a birch, upper branches entwined with a neighboring elm.

“Well, okay then.” Dean reached around to the small of his back and pulled out his gun. Sam followed suit.  
He didn’t think that they’d need their guns—it was almost blindingly bright out, after all, but there was no point in taking chances. Well, more than they were already taking. If that thing jumped them again, got a hold of Dean… Oh, for crying out loud. This was stupid.

“I’m taking you back to the motel,” he announced.

Dean shot him an annoyed glance and continued forward. “Dude, we’ve been through this already.”

“I mean it, Dean. This is reckless, even for us. You’re injured. You should be…”

“What? Stuck in bed waiting while you dick around out here by yourself? No thanks, Sam.”

Sam glowered, opened his mouth to argue again and then shut it as Dean suddenly stopped, ducking his head and staring at something through the trees. He took two steps and was at his brother’s side, trying to follow his gaze. “What is it?”

“See that? Over there? I think there’s a hole in that rock.”

“Like a cave?”

“Yeah. If you were a nocturnal animal, where would you sleep during the day?” Dean grinned fiercely and started forward again, compulsively rechecking his gun.

Sam reached out and grabbed his arm. “Wait. We can come back later. Just…give yourself another day to heal up, and—”

“And let that thing kill again? Not gonna happen.” He shrugged Sam’s hand off, grimacing involuntarily at the pain the sharp movement caused him.

“What if the cave’s small? What if we have to duck, or crawl?”

Dean was studiously not looking Sam in the eye. “We’ll deal with that problem if it comes up. Besides, thing’s nocturnal, remember? It’s probably sleeping. We can just make sure it’s in there and then toss a few bottles in—” He shook the knapsack slung over his shoulder. “—and blow the sucker up. It’ll be dead before it even knows what hit it.”

“We can do that later. Tomorrow. Dean…”

“Dude, lay off. If I didn’t think I could do this, I’d say so. I’m not an idiot, and I’m not gonna jeopardize this hunt or you. I ever fuck something up before because I wasn’t feeling one hundred percent?”

“No,” Sam said begrudgingly, because it was true. But that didn’t mean that there couldn’t be a first time. And in their line of work, the first time was all too likely to be the last as well.

“Then stop mother-henning me.” Dean shook his head and then turned away, back toward the cave. “I swear, man, I should have left you tied up with the goat.”


	8. An Explosive Solution

Dean paused just inside the cave to fumble in his backpack for a flashlight. They hadn’t wanted to use one last night, worried that it would warn the chupacabra before they had a chance to tag it, but there was no reason not to use one now. If it was here, and there was a heavy, animal smell that told Dean that his guess was dead on, then it would be asleep. The meager light from his flashlight probably wouldn’t wake it up; stumbling over it in the dark definitely would.

He heard Sam come up behind him and could practically feel the disapproval radiating off his brother. Ignored it in favor of starting forward, thankful that the cave was plenty tall enough for even Sam to walk upright. He hadn’t really been looking forward to doing any bending: his chest was sore enough as it was. But not so bad that he couldn’t be doing this—hell, he’d hunted with worse.

Sometimes he wished Sam would be more like Dad and take Dean at his word when he said he was fine. Kid kept forgetting who was the little brother here.

The flashlight skipped over something white and dull and he backtracked it, then grinned. “I think we’ve got it,” he whispered.

Sam inched up to peer over his shoulder at the bones and then grunted. “Goat?” he asked.

Dean hitched one shoulder up in a careful shrug. “Or deer. Either way…” He pressed forward, a grin spreading across his face. Damn, he loved this shit.

Up ahead, the light caught something black and furred and he stopped suddenly, breath in his throat. This was close enough. He could toss the bottles from here.

The black blob twitched suddenly and unfolded and Dean heard a small sound of surprise slip from him. He cleared his throat and tried again, softly. “Son of a bitch.”

“What is it?” Sam moved up next to him to see for himself. “Hunh.”

The miniature chupacabra blinked at them and then opened its mouth in a wide yawn. Its tail twitched back and forth as it heaved itself to its feet and tottered forward. Grinning and looking like the world’s ugliest rotweiller puppy. Dean shifted his grip on the light and raised his gun, only to freeze again at the warning growl that the motion provoked.

A fully-grown chupacabra stepped forward into the light, head held low to the ground and teeth bared. The little pup was still coming toward them, steadier on its legs now. Dean heard Sam swallow next to him.

“What now?” his brother asked.

 _How the hell should I know?_ But Sam was waiting for an answer, so he said, “Don’t move.”

It was a reasonable course of action. This thing wasn’t the one he’d shot, which meant that they were dealing with at least two full grown beasties and who knew how many of the little ones. He could see more tiny shadows unfurling themselves now. If he and Sam started shooting, they’d be chupacabra food in moments. And running…yeah, Dean wasn’t going to be running anywhere any time soon. If things got dicey—ha, like they weren’t now—he’d tell Sam to run. Try to take as many of them down with him as he could.

The little chupacabra had almost reached them—was close enough for him to kick if he wanted to. It stopped and sat back on its haunches, looking up at them, and then cocked its head and gave a high-pitched bark. Behind it, one of the other pups called back, and then two more of the ugly things were bounding forward, tails black blurs behind them.

Dean had time to think, _Damn, they’re fa—_ , and then the chupacabras were tumbling to a stop against his legs, yipping happily. One of them jumped up and put its front paws against his leg. The other lay where it had fallen and batted at his bootlace. The third pup, the first one he’d caught sight of, pushed itself up onto its hind legs and staggered forward a few steps, pawing at the air in Sam’s general direction.

And what the fuck was his little brother doing?

“Sam, _don’t_ …”

Sam didn’t so much as glance at him, the jackass, as he crouched down slowly and held out one hand. The pup fell against his hand and leaned there, snuffling at his skin noisily. God, it was going to bite him. These little things were going to suck them dry.

Sam made a noise in the back of his throat and Dean tensed, finger moving to flick the safety on his gun off. Then his brother looked up and grinned at him.

“It’s licking me,” he announced.

“Yeah, little taste test before the main course,” Dean muttered, sparing another glance for the large chupacabra to make sure it hadn’t come any closer. Thing was still crouched where it had been, though, watching them carefully. And there were two more of the little monstrosities coming to join in the fun. Still no sign of big, brain-dead and ugly, though, which was a good thing.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll shoot the one on you on the count of three. You run for the—”

“You can’t shoot them, Dean!” Sam sounded horrified at the very idea.

“What, you want me to let them drain us both?”

“They aren’t doing anything. They…I think they want to play.”

Oh, Christ. “They’re killers, Sam, or did you forget why we came here?”

“No, I don’t think so.” And he stood up, shooting a quick glance at Dean. “I’m going to try something. If I’m wrong… Well, at least you won’t be able to give me shit about it.”

“No. Don’t move. Sam, don’t—”

But Sam was walking forward, through the liter of pups and toward the big one—mom, probably. Dean cursed under his breath and raised his gun, ignoring the feel of claws catching in his jeans as one of the chupacabras worked its way up his leg. Then he cursed again as Sam took a step to the side and blocked his shot.

“Damnit, Sam, get out of the way!”

“Dude, it’s not dangerous. Look.” Sam had reached the adult chupacabra now and, as he extended one hand toward it, the huge thing rolled over onto its back and then lay there, panting up at him.

“What the _hell_?” Dean muttered, and then, glancing down, “Get off!” The industrious chupacabra pup had reached his waist and was trying to stick its head into his coat pocket. He wanted to push it off and couldn’t without losing either the gun or the flashlight. Was unwilling to sacrifice either one, no matter how Stepford things were getting.

“Dean, look. It’s got a collar on.” Sam was leaning over the chupacabra, his neck inches from the thing’s teeth.

Dean charged forward, ignoring the sudden flare of pain in his chest, and the pup that had been using him as a climbing post squealed and dug in with its claws. He heard his jacket rip and winced, but then he was at Sam’s side and shouldering his brother back and away from the overgrown bloodsucker. Ah, Christ that hurt!

Sam opened his mouth to protest and then snorted a laugh instead as he noticed the tiny chupacabra systematically destroying Dean’s second favorite coat. “Aw, look. He likes you.”

Oh, for Pete’s sake.

“Yeah, that’s great. You wanna get it off me?” Moving hurt. Hell, right now _breathing_ hurt. He was beginning to wish he’d never heard of Panoquot.

Sam reached out and hooked his hands underneath the chupacabra’s front legs. It whined as he pulled it off, staring beseechingly in Dean’s direction. Dean snorted and glanced down at the big chupacabra lying at his feet, his eyes settling instantly on its neck. Yep. Sam was right: thing was wearing a collar. Well, this was all sorts of fucked up.

Dean stood there for a few minutes, letting his ribs settle back down, and then turned back to his brother. “Okay, the collar thing’s weird, but—put that thing down!”

Sam had brought the thing up against his chest and was…was _giggling_ as it licked his face. “Oh, come on, dude. They’re tame. Sort of. Look, someone’s been visiting them.” He kicked his foot and there was a squeak as a dog’s chew toy bounced across the cave floor. The four chupacabra pups that Dean had left behind surged after the toy as a pack, tripping over one another as they went. The pup in Sam’s arms barked and wriggled. Sam took the hint and put it down on the floor, where it plummeted into the pile of its littermates.

Dean felt his guard relaxing and hated it. This was wrong, all wrong. He’d seen what these things could do—hell, he’d had one mistake his chest for a trampoline—and this? This shit just did not compute. But Sam was right. There were signs that a person had been coming here regularly. There was a pile of blankets by one wall, and the squeak toy Sam had kicked wasn’t the only one in here. And that collar around the adult chupacabra’s neck…

Dean leaned back over it, trying to ignore the feeling that it was going to surge up at any moment and latch onto his throat. Squinted at the collar. There was a word etched into the cured leather: Maria. Great, fugly thing had a name.

“Where was Veronica Rios found again?” Sam asked.

“Fox Run.”

“That’s where we parked the Impala, isn’t it?”

“So?”

“I think I know what’s going on here, Dean.”

“You wanna fill me in, then? Cause I gotta tell you, dude, this shit is messed up.”

“I think Veronica Rios is the one who’s been coming here. It has to have been someone who knew about these guys, and this is the Rioses’ land. She was probably either on her way here or on her way home from here when she was attacked.”

“Why’d they attack her if they were so chummy with her?”

“They didn’t. The one you shot did.” Sam gestured to the cave around them. “It’s not here, Dean. Something must’ve…I don’t know, gone wrong with it.”

“You think someone’s hexed it? Controlling it somehow?”

“No, nothing like that. I think…Oh, shit.”

“What?” Dean turned to see what had made his brother’s expression turn lost and dismayed, and felt his heart stop.

The other chupacabra was stalking down the tunnel toward them. Half its face was missing and it walked with a rolling limp. Dean was raising the gun—too late, damnit, he never should have let his guard down—and then something large and angry was hurtling past him, taking up a position between them and the snarling chupacabra. Maria to the rescue.

She was growling and snapping at the approaching chupacabra, not getting too close but being very vocal in her displeasure. Fugly came to a halt and stood there, sides heaving. Maria danced forward a little and it backed up, slowly, blinking its one remaining eye at her stupidly and drooling on itself. Dean sighted down the barrel of his gun carefully and then pulled the trigger. The noise of the shot sent the cubs tumbling over one another to the far corner of the cave and Maria to the ground in a defensive posture.

The round caught Fugly in the shoulder and then exploded. Bits of flesh and bone sprayed out and coated the tunnel wall. The chupacabra howled, pushing itself backwards as quickly as it could, and was gone before Dean could fire again. He kept the gun up anyway, ready to put a few more holes in it if it decided it hadn’t had enough for today.

Maria slunk back over to them, whimpering, and Sam reached out to scratch behind her ear. “S’okay, girl. It’s gone.” Then he looked up and caught Dean’s gaze with his own. “I think I know how we’re gonna kill it. And, uh…” He bit his lip. “I think I know what’s wrong with it.”

“Aside from its sparkling personality?”

“You aren’t going to like this.” But Sam sounded…smug?

“What?”

“I think it’s sick. It’s got rabies, Dean.”

“Rab…” Dean’s stomach lurched as he remembered its snout above him, foam dripping down onto his face. Blood showering down on his face. “No. Absolutely not, Sam.”

“It has all the symptoms,” Sam said, and then proceeded to tick them off on his fingers. “Nocturnal animal out during the day. Savage, angry attacks. Foaming at the mouth. Hell, Ama mentioned they’ve been having a rabies problem around here lately.”

“No way,” Dean said stubbornly. “It’s a chupacabra; it can’t have rabies.”

“It’s an animal, Dean, of course it can.” And Sam grinned suddenly. “Don’t worry, we’ll take you right into town to get your first shot.”

“But…” He couldn’t quite keep the tremor out of his voice. He hated needles. Almost as much as flying.

“Then we can come back and take care of this.”

“We don’t know that it’s rabid,” he tried. “We can wait until it’s dead, get it checked out…”

Sam shook his head, grin widening. Smug bastard. Smug, goat-phobic bastard. “There isn’t going to be enough left of that thing to check.” And then, as Dean continued to glare at him, he added, “Hey, blowing the thing up was your idea.”

Sometimes Dean wished he was an only child.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam was trying not to taunt Dean about it, he really was. But… “You know, I heard they don’t even have to give them in the stomach anymore.”

“Dude, shut up already!”

Oh yeah, turnabout was _so_ fair play.

They were still in the cave, waiting for Amada to call back and let them know she was at Fox Run with her truck. Because there was no way that they were going to fit Maria in the Impala, and Sam hadn’t been serious when he’d suggested they try it. Really he hadn’t. Only Dean made the most amusing faces.

His phone buzzed and he flipped it open. “Ama?”

“I’m here, Sam. I just can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“It’ll be fine, really. It’s just for a day, two at the most.”

“And you’re sure it’s safe?”

“Positive.”

“Okay, then. Bring them on out.”

“Be there soon.” Sam snapped his phone shut and stuffed it back into his pocket. “Okay, she’s here.” He stooped and took the backpack from Dean’s side. Started emptying it of the Molotov cocktails.

“What’re you doing, Sam?”

“You don’t really expect the puppies to walk the whole way, do you?”

“I’m not carrying any of them.”

Sam ignored his brother and fished the last bottle out, then whistled at the chupacabras.

“I mean it, Sam.”

“That’s okay.” Sam grabbed one of the pups, strutting toward him on stubby legs, and put it inside the backpack. “I wouldn’t let you anyway.”

“Wouldn’t let…”

“You’re too injured to do any lifting, Dean.”

“I know what you’re doing, and it isn’t going to work.”

Sam blinked at his brother innocently. “What? I’m just worried about you, man. I know that the walk here really took it out of you.” A second pup joined the first, filling the backpack, and Sam zipped the sides up, leaving an opening at the top where the two puppies could stick their heads out.

He stood up, starting to shoulder the pack on, and Dean grabbed it from him.

“I really hate you, you know that?”

“Back at you, Dean.” Sam scooped up a third and shoved it into Dean’s arms. It squirmed against his chest, flipped itself over, and then snuggled into Dean’s jacket, tiny tongue licking the leather. Dean jumped and then swore, partly in pain but mostly in annoyance.

“Oh, come on, man. It’s not hurting your precious jacket.”

“It’s not that, Sam…It’s…” He scrunched his face up and rolled his shoulders. “Gettoff, you mangy mutt.”

Sam shifted to the side and saw that one of the puppies in Dean’s backpack was studiously licking the back of his brother’s neck. He grinned, turning away quickly to collect the last two puppies himself before Dean could notice. He was grumpy enough about this whole thing already.

“I still don’t…stop it!...see why we have to do this,” Dean complained as they started for the entrance. Maria trailed after them, slowing as they neared the cave entrance and daylight, but unwilling to leave her pups’ side.

“Because,” Sam explained for what felt like the twentieth time, “We’re going to use the cave to trap the chupacabra.”

“So?”

“I can’t believe you, dude. You’d actually blow these guys up with it? Honestly?”

“They’re monsters, Sam. And the only thing separating them from the one we’re hunting is a freaking disease. What if they caught it? Hunh? This town’d be wiped off the map in a week.”

“They aren’t going to catch it because Ama’s going to get them vaccinated.”

“They aren’t _dogs_ , Sam.”

“I know that.” He smiled down at the puppies tucked up against his chest. They were so ugly they were actually kind of cute. And when they grew up… He imagined all that power and speed at their command on hunts. God, they’d clean house.

“No.”

Startled, he glanced over at his brother. “What?”

“We are _not_ keeping one.”

Damn. Who was the psychic one supposed to be here again? “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, you didn’t have to. Don’t think I don’t know how that freakish mind of yours works.”

Sam only snorted in response and they walked on in silence for a while. Then he said, tentatively, “It really would help on a hunt, though.”

“See? I knew it. No. Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on, Dean. Look at them! Can you honestly tell me you haven’t thought about it?”

“Hell yeah I can. They’re the fugliest things I’ve ever seen, and that includes that self-eviscerating ghoul back in Georgia.”

“I think they’re kinda cute.”

“You would.”

“I’d take care of it. Housebreak it, train it…”

“And where’s it going to sit when it grows up, Sam? You’ve seen how big these things get.” He gestured at Maria with the pup he was holding.

“We could get a tru—”

“Finish that sentence and I leave your ass here.”

“Fine,” Sam grumbled. “Rabies make you grumpy, you know that?”

“I do _not_ have rabies.”

“Not for long you don’t.”

Dean groaned and Sam smiled happily to himself. “Can we not talk about that?”

“I heard the needles they use are about three inches long.”

“I’m trading you in for a goat.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Stop rubbing it.”

“But it hurts…”

“It’ll hurt more if you don’t leave it alone, dumb ass.”

Dean scowled and forced himself to pull his hand away from the bandage. “Fucking chupacabra. Worst hunt _ever_.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sam grinned, shifting his grip on the tree. “I’m having fun.”

“That’s cause you’re a sadistic bastard.”

They were in a tree again, this one just outside the cave entrance. They’d swung by Ama’s after the trip to the hospital, where Sam had managed to have a doctor take a look at Dean’s ribs—just bruised, like he’d thought—while they were waiting for a nurse to stick a fucking three foot needle into him. Dean had borrowed ingredients from Ama and mixed up some more Molotovs, storing the mixture in ceramic pots that she had supplied. Sam had piled a good supply of these at the rear of the cave, then put the bottles Dean had made earlier at short intervals along the tunnel. Dean could see the last two, side-by-side in the entrance, from where he was perched.

It was a good plan, he had to admit. They wait for the chupacabra to show itself again, to try to get back into the cave where it had obviously been living before it got sick, and then…boom. There were enough explosives in there to bury the cave, let alone take out one messed up chupacabra. With rabies. Bastard.

He fumbled against his bandage again, wincing, and Sam batted his hand away. “Dude, stop it.”

“You stop it.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Dean. I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re breathing,” Dean pointed out.

Sam rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to respond and then they both stilled, attention caught by a blur of movement below them.

The chupacabra stumbled toward the cave, sides heaving laboriously and head hung low enough to scrape the ground. Dean tightened his grip on the gun. Just a few more feet and it would be in the cave. Then they’d only have to wait for a minute and… The chupacabra gave a groan and fell over. And then lay there, stone-still.

Dean gaped at it. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

“Did it just…”

“That bastard!” It had busted up his ribs— _again_ —and gone and drooled on him so that he had to get a fucking painful shot—no, _a whole fucking series_ of painful shots—and now he didn’t even get to kill it?

“Well, dead is dead, I guess. Even if this is fairly…anti-climactic.” Sam shrugged and moved to start climbing back down the tree. “At least we didn’t have to blow a hole in Ama’s property.”

“Fuck that.” Son of a bitch wasn’t getting off that easy. Dean had put _effort_ into this, damnit.

“Dean, what’re you…Don’t. Dean, we don’t need to…”

Dean pulled the trigger and the cave exploded.


	9. Epilogue

_On the Road, a few hours south of Panoquot._

“I can’t believe you blew it up anyway.”

“Waste of good Molotovs, dude. Not like we were gonna be able to take them with us.”

“You were just pissed you didn’t get to kill it.”

“Disposed of the body, didn’t I?”

“Dean, you disposed of half an acre of forest.”

“It’ll grow back.”

“Yeah, in _fifty years_.”

Silence. Then, “What the hell was that?”

“Um. Nothing.”

“No, I heard something… No. You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t, Sam.”

“Okay, Dean. I didn’t.”

“We’re going back to Ama’s.”

“Oh, come on, man…”

“No! In the name of all that is good and holy, _no_.”

“But look…he likes you.”

“Get that thing out of my face; I’m driving.”

“It’s okay, Johnny. He’s just cranky because it’s almost time for another shot.”

“You did _not_ name that thing after Dad.”

“What? It’s, you know, like in honor of him…Jesus, man! You almost hit that car! You can’t U-turn across a divider!”

“Watch me.”

“Why don’t we just pull over for a little while. You know, just until you calm down.”

“No. We’re going to Ama’s. Now.”

“But…”

“If you don’t shut up, Sammy, I swear to God I’m leaving you there with it.”

“Fine.” And a few minutes later, “Um, Dean?”

“ _What_?”

“I, uh…nothing.”

“What’s that smell? Wait a…did that thing just…”

“I’ll clean it up! Dean? I’ll wash it, okay? Dean?”

“One more word and I’m shooting both of you, right now. Fucking chupacabras.”


End file.
